UC-NRLF 


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LIBRAtY 


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Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette 
in  the  High  Rockies 


Being  a  record  of  an  Artist's 

Impressions  in  the  Land  of 

the  Red  Gods 


BY  JAMES  BLOMFIELD 


Published  by  W.  E.  WROE 

Chicago 

1914 


Copyright,  19 14 
By  William  E.  Wroe 


r73q 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 


Soon  after  my  return  from  Montana  in  the  late  fall  of  1913,  I  showed  to 
my  artist  friend,  Mr.  James  Blomfield,  some  photo-prints  which  I  had  made 
along  the  Madison  river  and  in  the  Teepee  basin  during  late  September  and 
early  October. 

He  was  much  impressed  by  them,  and  voiced  the  hope  that  some  day  he 
might  be  able  to  visit  the  section,  and  paint  the  rolling  prairie  vistas  and  em- 
battled walls  which  the  clear  mountain  air  had  permitted  the  camera  to  record. 
As  1  had  long  desired  one  or  two  canvases  that  would  be  typical  of  the 
section,  1  then  suggested  to  him  that  he  arrange  to  accompany  me  the  follow- 
ing fall,  well  knowing  also  that  my  own  enjoyment  of  the  trip  would  be  greatly  en- 
hanced by  the  presence  and  influence  of  one  who  combined  a  keen  appreciation 
of  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  vast  outdoors  with  the  rare  ability  to  make 
permanent  with  pigment  and  canvas  the  fleeting  moods  of  the  landscape's  hour. 
He  accepted  the  invitation  then  extended,  and  joined  my  genial  friend  Mr. 
Arthur  L.  Pratt  and  myself  on  the  visit  which  we  made  to  the  same  region  in 
September  and  October  of  the  present  year. 

This  last  was  by  far  the  most  pleasant  trip  which  1  have  ever  made  into 
this  country,  which  1  have  visited  annually  for  a  number  of  years,  and  was  made 
so  by  the  companionship  and  work  of  the  peiinter  man.  I  found  myself  hanging 
about  him  and  his  work,  constantly  fascinated  with  the  free  though  faithful 
handling  of  his  color,  and  by  his  ability  to  preserve  not  only  form  and  aerial 
distance,  but  also  all  the  related  substances  of  matter  as  Nature  assembles  them 
in  the  atmosphere  appeared  to  be  sensed  by  him,  and  unconsciously  expressed 
through  his  brush. 

Mr.  Blomfield  made  some  twenty-three  studies  in  oil  and  water  color, 
besides  a  book  full  of  pencil  sketches  during  the  month  he  was  with  us,  all  of 
which  were  most  satisfying  to  one  who  knows  and  loves  the  country  at  the 
time  late  fall,  as  chief  femme  du  chambre,  arranges  the  morning  gowns  and 
evening  robes  for  Mistress  Earth. 

He  was  vacationing  at  his  work,  and  the  country  and  the  air  at  the  6,700 
and  8,000  foot  elevations,  at  which  it  weis  done,  were  both  a  joy  and  an  inspira- 
tion to  him.  He  seemed  to  hear  and  understand  the  tongueless  tattle  of  the 
vibrant  mornings  and  the  solemn  speech  of  the  sentinel  hills  at  evening.  As 
science  has  proven  to  us  that  sound  and  color  are  akin,  so  1  may  say  that  to  me, 
Mr.  Blomfield  caught  and  fastened  in  a  frame  the  songs  of  the  waters  and  the 
wooded  slopes,  so  that  we  may  listen  with  our  eyes. 

Mr.  Blomfield  also  kept  a  log  of  our  trip,  and  I  found  his  pen  as  facile  as 
his  brush,  and  that  his  log  very  naturally  carried  some  splendid  word  pictures 
of  the  constantly  changing  environment  of  prairie,  butte,  stream,  and  moun- 
tain, in  all  their  variation  of  tone  and  color  as  an  artist  saw  them  every  day. 
He  has  written  so  charmingly  and  honestly  of  our  simple  camp  life,  its  small 
events  and  good  companionship,  and  enriched  it  with  so  many  descriptions  of  the 
fields  and  hills  as  they  smiled  or  sulked  in  alternate  sun  and  shade  that  I  deter- 
mined to  produce  his  log  in  permanent  form.  Mr.  Blomfield  has  most  kindly 
added  to  it  a  number  of  rapid  pen  drawings,  from  his  own  sketches. 

I  hope  that  the  printing  of  this  log  will  vivify  the  aflFection  of  its  readers 
for  the  great  outdoors,  and  the  outdoor  life. 

It  will  do  that,  I  am  sure,  for  every  one  who  has  already  tasted  the  nectar 
of  the  hills  at  morn,  and  if  perchance  some  starved  soul  should  scan  this  log 
who  has  heretofore  by  choice  denied  himself  the  hills  and  streams  for  town,  and 
then,  resolving  to  mend  his  ways,  shall  turn  for  himself  with  reverence  and  with 
joy  the  leaves  of  the  Great  Open  Book,  I  shall  be  glad. 

WILLIAM  E.  WROE 

Chicago,  November  1914. 


313 


THE    CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Publisher's  Note       . 1 

The  First  Day 5 

In  the  Mountains .  15 

The  First  Camp 21 

Things  About  Camp .  24 

Two  Days  Together          34 

A  Trip  From  Camp 41 

The  Second  Camp 45 

Comments  and  Stories 50 

Two  Casual  Days 55 

The  Artist  Goes  A-Fishing 60 

A  Ceimp  Sunday 67 

New  Experiences 71 

Hitting  the  Trail 76 

The  High  Places 83 

The  Content  of  Quiet  Days         86 

Mainly  of  Elk 92 

Good-Bye,  Camp  Tepee         94 

Three  Quiet  Days 99 

An  Interlude .108 

Farewell  to  the  Mountains 113 


LIST  OF  FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  Page 
'  'Through  a  valley  to  which  the  hills  here  descend  is  visible  a  yet  farther 

range" 21 

"At  evening  the  tones  change  to  deepest  violet" 45 

Eastward  from  Second  Camp  at  evening          67 

"Old  Baldy — an  aristocrat  of  the  hills" 83 


THE  FIRST  DAY 


"Who  hath  smelled  wood  smoke  at  twiHght;  who  hath 

heard  the  birch  log  burning. 
Who  is  quick  to  read  the  noises  of  the  night. 
O,  let  him  follow  after,  for  the  young  men's  feet 

are  turning 
To  the  camps  of  proved  desire  and  known  delight." 

This  day,  Sunday,  September  13,  1914,  aboard  the  Overland 
Limited  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  some  time  after  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  west  of  Columbus,  Neb.,  the  last  place  whose 
name  the  writer  caught,  begins  this  chronicle  of  the  adventurers 
into  the  land  of  the  Red  Gods,  whose  faring  forth  commenced 
on  the  12th. 

It  will  be  a  journal,  a  running  comment,  a  narrative,  or  a 
series  of  paragraphic  digressions,  all  according  to  the  way  the 
writer  feels,  and  the  exigencies  of  travel  and  camp  life  let  him,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  is  apt  to  shift  from  the  first  to  the  third  person, 
from  the  impersonally  narrative  to  the  personally  meditative  by 
turns,  as  the  spirit  moves  him,  regardless  of  the  academic  demands 
of  literary  unity. 

The  three  men  primarily 
concerned  are  thus  identified: 

WiUiam  E.  Wroe  (Bill) 
of  Chicago;  Arthur  L.  Pratt 
(Art)  of  Kalamazoo,  Mich., 
makers  of  papers  and  fish 
and  some  other  stories  alike 
of  an  exceeding  wonderful- 
ness;  and  James  Blomfield 
(Jim),  the  guest  of  the  said 
Bill,  Englishman,  artist,  in- 
diter  and  limner  hereof,  and 
a  resident  of  Chicago,  but 
otherwise  not  convicted  of 
any  crime. 

On  the  edge  of  evening, 
the  day  before   this  present. 


Page  5 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


thus  began  for  me,  the  artist,  the  events  hereafter  following. 
In  the  midst  of  afternoon  tea-drinking  (as  is  my  English  habit)  at 
a  near  by  house,  came  this  scrap  of  dialogue,  breaking  in  on  my 
discourse: 

"Take  that  phone,  Fred,"  from  my  respected  hostess. 

"As  I  was  saying,  mother,"  I  endeavor  to  continue. 

"Nancy  wants  you  on  the  phone,  Jim." 

Mrs.  Jim  beats  me  to  it.  "Oh,  Jim.  Nancy  says  Adam  is 
at  the  house  for  you.  ALL  RIGHT,  Nancy.  Tell  Adam  to 
wait.     We'll  come  right  over." 

Then  follow  good-byes,  and  a  sharp  walk. 

"Good  afternoon,  Adam." 

"Oh,  Auntie  Mate,"  excitedly  suggests  Nancy,  "let's  ride 
two  blocks  down  with  Uncle  Jim." 

They  do.  At  the  end  of  the  appointed  two  blocks  there  are 
two  more  good-byes  and  the  business  of  waving  a  cap. 

In  five  minutes  Adam  pulls  up  in  front  of  my  friend  Wroe's 
house.  I  enter.  Wroe,  an  overcoat  over  his  arm,  greets  me.  "All 
ready?" 

"Yes." 

"Let's  take  a  last  look  round."  And  Bill  makes  a  careful 
scrutiny,  halting  with  evident  suspicion  in  front  of  an  inoffensive 
tobacco  jar  on  the  table,  but  concludes  it's  all  right. 

Then  follows  Sheridan  Road  with  its  homeward  bound  stream 
of  automobiles,  the  slanting  sun  lying  in  golden  bands  across  the 
asphalt.  Lincoln  Park  swims  in  a  floating  golden  haze  broken 
by  vibrantly  violet  bulks  of  trees  and  half  hidden  buildings.  Com- 
ment on  the  new  apartment  building  at  the  south  end  of  the  park 
towering  above  the  trees.  The  large  last  gleam  of  evening  sun 
on  the  big  bay  of  the  Lake  Shore^Drive.  Adam  bores  right  along 
— steady  as  a  locomotive  engineer.  I  comment  on  Adam's 
steadiness.     No  temperament. 

"No,"  agrees  Bill.  "Adam  is  nearly  an  ideal  chaflFeur  that 
way." 

The  word  "temperament*  recalls  a  conversation  at  Wroe's 
house  a  couple  of  evenings  before.  The  men  were  talking  golf. 
I  said  that  Ouimet,  the  champion,  was  said  to  be  stolid  and  devoid 
of  imagination. 

"Sure,"  confirmed  Wroe.     "It  takes    that  kind  to  play  the 


The  First  Day 


best  golf.  A  man  with  the  slightest  temperament  or  receptivity 
goes  all  to  pieces."  And  in  the  next  minute's  conversation  he 
demonstrated  that  by  the  sheer  necessity  of  the  game,  all  the 
great  golf  players  could  be  little  more  than  perfectly  co-ordinated 
muscular  machines. 

Now  comes  Rush  Street,  with  its  vista  of  the  downtown  towers 
and  blocks,  in  gray  silhouettes  spiring  into  the  upper  air,  goldenly 
luminous,  across  the  half-seen  blur  of  Rush  Street  bridge  on  the 
street  level.  Wroe  is  open  in  admiration  of  its  poetry — not  a 
bit  bashful  before  me  in  showing  how  much  he  really  feels  the 
passing  romance  of  a  casual  street  end,  the  marching  procession 
of  towers  down  the  long  far-seen  front  of  Michigan  Avenue,  or 
the  last  flash  of  sunlight  on  some  curl  of  cloud  or  lift  of  wave 
above  the  smoke  bank,  or  the  city's  evening-thrown  shadow  on 
the  lake  front. 

At  the  Blackstone  Hotel  I  am  introduced  to  Art,  of  genially 
large  presence  and  fresh-colored,  whose  cheerful,  boy-like  smile, 
jovial  greeting,  and  handclasp  prophesy  eloquently  of  the  good 
fellowship  to  come,  perchance  in  the  closeness  of  camp  life  to 
attain  later  to  the  full  flower  of  friendship,  for  Art  is  a  man  who 
inspires  liking  on  sight.     I  meet  also  the  charming  Mrs.  Pratt  and 

her  sister.  Time  presses.  Art 
climbs  into  the  machine.  There 
are  some  more  good-byes.  The 
ladies  wave  a  gay  farewell.  Pres- 
ently we  reach  the  North  West- 
ern Depot.  At  the  baggage 
counter,  after  an  exchange  of  a 
few  words,  Wroe  turns  to  me, 
and  says : 

"They     won't     check     that 

bundle  of  yours,  Jimmy.     They 

say  it  isn't  baggage — it 's  freight." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Think     it's     those     wood 

panels"  (two  dozen,  and  a  couple 

of    stretched   canvases,  wrapped 

and  corded  in  blankets.) 

'Art"  Myself  to  baggage  clerk,  as 


8  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


he  brings  back  the  offending  package  to  be  by  us  taken  into  the 
car:   "Why  won't  you  check  this?" 

"Baggage  master  says  it's  pictures  and  picture  frames,  and 
it's  freight." 

"Heavens,  man.  It's  only  the  blank  canvases,  and  some 
panels  to  make  pictures  on.  And  as  it  travels  with  me,  it  seems 
I'm  entitled  to  have  it  checked." 

"It  ain't  baggage." 

"How  do  you  define  baggage?" 

"Wearing  apparel." 

"Oh!  Whatinell  do  you  do  to  the  commercial  travelers^ 
then?" 

Wroe  and  Pratt  both  grin  at  my  Parthian  shot,  which  is  all 
the  satisfaction  I  get  out  of  it. 

"Train's  ready,  now,  gentlemen." 

Steam ;  bells ;  lights ;  red  cap,  dark  face ;  cheerful  grin ;  compart- 
ment; luggage  rack  and  a  length  of  string,  and  we  lash  a  rod  case 
so  it  won't  fall  off  on  to  the  berth  beneath;  other  disposal  of 
belongings;  dining  car;  bill. 

Wroe:     "You  need  a  bit  of  training  down." 

Arthur  (in  muttered  response):  " . " 

Wroe:  "Well,  any  man  who  has  taken  as  young  and  pretty 
a  wife  as  you  have  ought  to  be  willing  to  cut  something  on  his  diet 
so  she  won't  feel  uncomfortable,"  and  the  two  men  jest  with  each 
other  like  a  pair  of  schoolboys,  with  an  aside  to  me  from  Wroe 
as  to  what  "Art"  may  or  may  not  be  expected  to  do  in  camp, 
which  we  will  reach  the  evening  of  the  1 5  th. 

"Jimmy,  this  is  Mr.  Ellicott."  Thus  William,  as  he  intro- 
duces a  friend  of  his  to  Art  and  myself.  Ellicott  is  thin,  tall,  with 
gray  eyes  set  a  bit  forward  in  their  orbits,  a  clipped  grayish  black 
mustache  with  straight  mouth  under  it — pleasant  smile  and  a 
good  handclasp;  gives  one  a  slight  impression  of  not  being  able 
to  eat  all  he  would  like  to,  but  making  a  cheerful  best  of  a  bad  job 
that  isn't  his  fault.  Interested  in  electrical  power  plants — big 
installations — thinks  in  terms  of  tens  of  thousands  of  horsepower; 
talks  types  of  turbines  to  me.     I'm  interested. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  bit  wonderful  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that 
such  a  simple  mechanical  proposition  as  the  revolution  of  a  core 
of  soft  iron  within  a  coil  or  a  number  of  assembled  coils  of  iron 


The  First  Day 


"Bill" 


or  copper  wire  should  pro- 
duce such  a  tremendous 
power.  Yes,  you're  quite 
right — no  electrical  engineer 
living  knows  why  it  should 
be  so,  or  what  electrical  power 
is.  All  we  really  know  for 
sure  is  that  when  we  do 
given  things,  certain  effects 
follow.  A  cold  motor?  No 
such  thing.  Yes,  I  remember 
the  Bidwell  cold  motor,  stock 
in  which  was  sold  extensively 
some  years  ago  but  it  was  a 
fake.  You  can't  make  a 
journal  that  won't  heat  under 
friction,  however  light,  sooner 
or  later.  Where  two  surfaces  bear  on  each  other,  there  must 
be  friction,  and  you'll  see  perpetual  motion  about  as  soon  as 
friction  with  out  heat." 

In  the  smoking  car,  from  myself:  "Do  any  of  you  play 
pedro?" 

"Haven't  heard  of  it  in  years.     Review  the  points." 

"Good,"  says  Bill.  "EUicott,  you  and  1  will  show  Art  and 
Jimmy  here  how  to  play  this  game." 

The  game  concluded,  the  question  arises  of  who's  going  to 
have  the  upper  berth,  lower  berth,  and  lounge  respectively 
in  the  compartment  set  apart  for  the  adventuring  triad.  Art 
looks  wistful  as  the  lower  berth  is  enumerated.  Art  is,  recumbent^ 
a  bit  wide  midships,  not  to  mention  height  and  vertical  displace- 
ment. The  lounge  is  narrow,  and  an  upper  berth  means  gymnas- 
tics not  becoming,  not  to  say  perspiration-provoking  in  one  of 
ease-seeking  bigness,  but  he  insists  on  drawing  cards  for  first,, 
second,  and  third  choices. 

The  major  card  falls  to  me.  I  take  the  upper  berth  on  the 
ground  of  having  always  loved  the  high  places.  William  taking 
the  lower,  Arthur  makes  the  best  of  things,  and  displays  a 
notable  dexterity  in  stowage  on  the  lounge. 

Sleeping  car  nights  are  much  alike.     There  is  always  the 


10  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


same  uneasy  feeling  that  you  are  going  in  the  wrong  direction, 
the  same  sleepy  mental  effort  at  correction  of  a  known-to-be 
wrong  impression — a  pleasant  wandering  off  into  a  speculative 
by-path — how  such  things  come  to  be — Locke  on  the  Under- 
standing— rather  dull  old  geezer  to  read — depends  on  one's  state 
of  mind — consciousness  of  darkness — velvety — well,  this  is  com- 
fortable and  soothing  at  any  rate,  even  if  one  doesn't  sleep — 
wonder  what  the  time  is — don't  want  to  disturb  the  others  by  snap- 
ping on  a  light — O,  well,  Wroe's  in  the  bunk  below  me,  he  can't 
get  it — the  edge  of  the  bunk  will  keep  it  off  Art's  face  on  the 
lounge — snap — watch — snap) — dark — 12.30 — wonder  where  we  set 
back  our  watches — course — distance  traveled  west  sets  Chicago 
time  a  bit  ahead — circumference  of  earth  is  25,000  miles — revolves 
once  in  24  hours — rather  over  1 ,000  miles  an  hour — 20  minutes 
is  one- third  of  an  hour — one- third  of  1 ,000  is  333  J — aug-g-h — o-ow 
— oblivion. 

A  gray  morning,  and  nearing  Council  Bluffs,  Iowa.  On  the 
rear  platform  I  take  my  hat  off  to  feel  the  sweet  fall  rain  that 
refreshes  the  land.  Roll  on  roll  of  prairie,  belted  and  banded 
with  cottonwoods,  heaves  away  to  a  luminous  horizon  under  a 
free  and  cloudy  sky.  The  Typhon  locks  of  the  rain  clouds  hang 
low  in  the  east.  With  thankfulness  to  see  the  open  country,  I 
fairly  laugh  aloud  with  sheer  joy  of  it,  it  looks  so  familiar  and 
kindly,  and  is  wrapped  in  such  a  heavenly  quietness,  the  rattle 
of  the  train  being  merely  sub-conscious. 

There  is  a  dignified  fellow  Englishman  on  the  platform,  his 
gray  tweeds,  drooping  gray  mustache  and  eyebrows  in  perfect 
accord  with  his  clothing,  and  with  a  regulation  fresh  complexion 
on  a  spare  and  military  figure.  We  are  politely  unconscious  of 
each  other's  presence.  Unfortunate — very — umpire  not  there  to 
introduce  us,  but  must  observe  the  rules  of  the  game,  you  know. 

Wroe  joins  me  and  takes  a  deep  breath,  and  looks  as  one 
meeting  an  old  friend  as  he  views  the  open  face  of  the  earth. 
He  comments  on  the  grade  of  the  corn  crops  we  pass — a  critical 
and  farmer-like  appraisal — distinguishes  popcorn  for  me  from 
other  types.  We  pass  a  small  settlement — he  waves  his  arm  to  a 
little  boy  in  overalls  in  a  dooryard. 

"He  just  had  to  get  up  to  see  the  Overland  Limited  go  by. 
She's  never  stopped  there  since  she  began  to  run.     Goes  by  once 


The  First  Day  II 


every  day.  Some  day  she  will  stop  right  there.  He  will  be  there 
to  see  it.  It  will  be  a  great  day.  At  one  bound,  from  a  mere 
pin  point  on  the  map,  that  little  fellow's  domicile  will  leap  to  an 
honored  place  among  the  great  metropoli  of  the  world.  The 
Overland  Limited  stopped  there.  And  he  is  no  longer  an  obscure 
country  dweller  in  momma-patched  overalls — he  is  a  cosmopolite — 
a  citizen  of  the  world — a  man  who  has  seen  things,  b'gosh."  The 
jesting  kindliness  of  Wroe's  voice  as  he  makes  this  little  comment 
is  pleasant  to  hear. 

We  got  breakfast  west  of  Omaha.  The  cottonwoods  are  the 
glory  of  Nebraska — the  banks  and  kindly  protecting  belts  of 
them — their  marching  files  along  the  distant  water  courses — their 
methodical  ascent  of  the  rises — over  the  hills  and  far  away.  There 
is  a  level  gray  ceiling  of  cloud,  with  a  hint  of  broken  ochreous  white 
and  pale  violet  near  the  horizon,  which  seems  to  promise  a  clearing 
of  the  weather  before  long. 

The  corn  is  almost  universally  ready  for  shocking,  but  a  couple 
of  quarter  sections  are  passed  yet  green,  evidently  planted  late. 
We  see  crows  over  the  corn  shocks,  darkly  flapping,  with  wing 
feathers  momentarily  separated  against  the  sky,  and  over  a  little 
creek — the  Wroe  bookplate.  The  cottonwoods  are  becoming 
fewer,  and  the  countryside  bare.  It  is  now  more  like  the  far 
northwest,  and  suggests  a  chilly  bleakness  in  late  fall  and  winter. 
Near  a  watertank  an  old  fashioned  surrey,  quite  a  relic  of  mediae- 
valism  in  these  automobile-owning  days,  is  passed,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  is  seen  the  first  automobile  since  leaving  Chicago. 

The  North  Platte  River  shows  stray  channels  bound  with 
gravel  bars;  silt  bars  and  flats;  islets  bound  within  the  flats,  and 
bordered  all  about  with  cottonwoods  and  dog-willows;  a  flash 
of  bulrushes  here  and  there;  a  random  patterning  of  russets, 
dutch  pinks,  sunny  yellows,  pale  violets,  broken  purple  pinks 
upon  an  undertone  of  gray  green.  Presently  we  leave  the  Platte, 
and  the  cottonwoods  vanish  into  the  shelter  of  distant  coulees. 

A  few  flocks  of  sheep  are  seen.  What  corn  is  observed  seems 
to  be  full-eared  and  fairly  ripened,  but  it  is  noticeably  stunted 
as  compared  with  that  on  the  lower  levels  east  of  the  Platte.  The 
only  birds  visible  are  hawks,  of  which  the  sparrow  hawk,  hen 
harrier,  and  sharp-shinned  hawk  are  identified,  besides  one  kingly 
fellow  on  a  fence  stake — a  peregrine  falcon,  who,  as  he  rises. 


12  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


delights  the  artist  with  the  splendid  sword-like  sweep  of  his  wings. 

Some  time  before  reaching  Sherman,  Wyo.,  8,010  feet  above 
sea  level,  the  land  takes  an  aspect  of  bleak,  bare  desolation,  broken 
only  by  an  occasional  sheep  herder's  hut,  or  a  straggling  fence. 
A  feeding  station  for  stock  is  quite  an  event.  Arthur  comments  on 
the  isolation  of  things,  and  the  hardihood  of  early  homesteaders. 
This  serves  as  the  introduction  to  a  surveyor's  story  told  by  the 
artist.  A  survey  party  in  this  part  of  the  West  years  ago  came 
upon  a  deserted  homestead.  The  doors  and  windows  of  the 
house  were  boarded  up.  On  the  boards  on  one  side  was  chalked 
*'Four  miles  from  wood."  On  the  second  side  was  chalked  "Six 
miles  from  water."  On  the  third  side,  "A  hundred  miles  from  a 
railroad,"  and  on  the  last  side,  "God  bless  our  home." 

The  clouds  hang  low,  and  it  gets  a  bit  monotonous.  A  resort 
is  had  to  cards,  this  time  Ellicott  and  Jimmy  against  Pratt  and 
Wroe  at  pedro,  in  which  the  first  two  are  victorious  by  a  narrow 
margin.  Bill  and  Art  then  go  to  a  game  of  their  own,  in  which, 
hands  of  twelve  each  being  dealt,  the  players  draw  and  discard 
in  runs,  threes  and  fours,  a  deuce  having  any  value  the  man  drawing 
it  likes  to  give  it  in  combination  with  the  others.  The  man  playing 
out  all  his  cards  first  is  credited  with  the  number  of  pips  counted 
on  the  cards  still  remaining  in  the  hand  of  his  opponent.  As  he 
plays,  Bill  keeps  up  a  running  comment  that  tickles  the  other  two 
mightily.  I  don't  hear  all  of  it,  but  get  a  stray  sentence  now  and 
then. 

"Come  across,  now.  Art — can't  wait  here  all  day  for  you. 
You're  off  the  reserve.  Now,  will  you  come  quietly,  or  do  I 
have  to  tie  you  ?  Now,  now  (taking  up  a  card  from  Art's  discard, 
and  completing  a  trio  with  it),  you  shouldn't  do  things  like  that — 
they're  very  unwise." 

"Nothing  else  to  do,"  growls  Art,  and  grins  at  the  same  time. 
In  fact,  a  continually  wavering  and  cigar-punctuated  smile  is  his 
chorus  to  Bill's  obiter  dicta. 

The  steward  of  the  dining  car  comes  to  Wroe,  and  there  is  a 
whispered  conference.  Art  catches  a  word.  His  eyes  open  antic- 
ipatorily,  the  dawning  expression  of  pleased  expectation  of 
gustatorial  delights  on  his  genial  countenance,  succeeded  im- 
mediately by  a  look  of  doubt.  I  catch  four  words  from  his 
questioning  remark  to  Bill:     "Game  warden — state  law."     The 


The  First  Day  13 


steward  smiles  discreetly,  but  says  nothing.  Bill  grins,  turns  to 
me,  and  asks  suddenly,  "How  do  you  want  your  prairie  chicken — 
broiled  or  roasted?" 

"Broiled."  And  as  the  steward  departs  smiling,  I  conjecture 
to  myself  by  what  magic  have  Bill  and  the  steward  conjured 
from  out  this  lonely  waste  for  our  epicurean  delectation  the  erst- 
loved  bird  1  had  not  heard  of  in  years,  and  which  I  had  supposed 
was  extinct  as  the  passenger  pigeon.  I  understand  now  the 
suggestion  made  at  noon  that  we  eat  light  at  luncheon,  which  we 
did — Arthur  with  a  discriminating  care  which  I  now  know  not 
to  have  been  with  any  regard  to  Bill's  suggestion  at  the  beginning 
of  the  journey,  as  to  the  advantages  of  dieting  on  Mrs.  Pratt's 
account. 

At  dinner  the  talk  is  of  old,  and  almost  forgotten  card  games ; 
straight  whist — which  vanished  about  the  time  bicycles  began  to 
fade  away  from  the  streets — cribbage,  nap,  and  that  famous  old 
lower-Mississippi  before-the-war  game,  brag,  from  which  the 
modern  poker  was  developed.  Arthur  has  never  seen  cribbage.  I 
undertake  to  teach  him  after  dinner.  Ellicott  shows  Art  what  to 
discard  and  what  to  play,  while  William  is  deep  in  war  news  on 
a  near-by  seat.  Art  is  much  tickled  by  the  quaint  nomenclature 
of  the  game — one  for  his  nob  and  two  for  his  heels — but  appears  to 
consider  the  system  of  reckoning  points,  especially  when  his 
vis-a-vis  tabs  up  a  score  of  sixteen  on  a  hand  of  absurdly  low  cards, 
as  a  special  development  of  higher  accounting. 

Speaking  of  early  American  settlement  with  Ellicott,  whose 
forbears  first  planted  themselves  in  New  England  some  time  in 
1665,  I  remarked  that  some  of  those  early  arrivals  brought  some 
interesting  coats  of  arms  with  them. 

"Most  of  'em  didn't  need  anything  else,"  he  responds. 

This  gives  one  a  new  slant  on  the  matter  of  distinguishing 
devices.  Among  the  various  essayists  I  have  read,  I  do  not 
recall  one  who  has  made  any  comment  on  the  moral  influence 
toward  accomplishment  in  the  face  of  hardship  and  privation, 
that  may  be  contained  in  the  heraldically-shorthanded  record  of 
forbears  honored. 

Bill  and  Art  commence  again  to  draw  and  discard,  with  the 
other  two  in  cheerful  contemplation.  It  is  one  of  the  easiest 
things  we  do.     Ellicott  is  one  of  the  best  contemplaters  I  know. 


14  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rocl^ies 


He  can  contemplate  with  one  for  hours  in  a  sociable  silence  that 
is  satisfying. 

Sandwiches  from  the  remainder  of  the  prairie  chicken  come. 
We  draw  a  hand  of  poker  to  see  who  gets  again  the  choice  of 
berths.  This  time  Art  gets  the  upper  berth.  It's  wide — if  he 
does  have  to  lift  himself  to  it.     I  find  the  lounge  quite  comfortable. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 


Near  Evamton,  W^o.  Monday  the  fourteenth. 

Since  daylight,  from  the  observation  platform,  I  have  watched 
the  low  hills  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  itself  running  several  thousand 
feet  above  sea  level,  in  changing  vistas  shouldering  their  way 
against  the  sky  in  long  procession.  They  sweep  and  soar  in 
luminous  gray  bulk  against  a  goldenly-glowing  cloudy  sky  in  the 
east ;  that  to  south  and  north  in  low  down  rifts  breaks  into 
the  loveliest  pearl  greens,  and  overhead  into  a  wet  blue  that  has 
the  merest  ghost  of  south  Atlantic  sea  water  elusively  hovering 
in  its  placid  depths.  And  from  their  shimmering  gray  distances 
in  the  sunlit  east  the  hills  come  sliding  down  into  the  valley  in 
long,  sweeping  curves  to  take  their  local  color  as  they  come  into 
full  light,  of  faded  old  gold.  On  this  field,  the  aspens,  turned  by 
the  frost,  flame  in  orange  vermilion,  blazing  the  brighter  for  the 
gray  undertone  of  their  bare  stems.  Now  we  leave  the  ranges, 
covered  with  morning  frost  that  departs  before  the  sun,  and  come 
into  a  level  valley,  bound  about  with  yet  other  hills.  The  color 
of  these,  full  of  light,  is  not  so  much  gray  as  a  prismatic,  light- 
quivering  field  of  minute,  separately  unseen  points  of  color — red, 
violet,  pale  green,  full  green,  dull  yellow,  bright  yellow,  olive, 
blue  of  a  dozen  different  tones  of  blueness,  purplishness,  or  green- 
ness, all  under  the  morning  light,  broken,  reflected,  and  refracted 
in  multitudinous  ways,  brought  and  harmonized  together  into 
a  gray  that  is  the  sum  of  all  color — alike  a  painter's  delight  and  a 
painter's  despair. 

And  their  scale.  This  is  not  realized  until,  holding  a  pencil 
at  arm's  length — one  eye  closed,  the  length  of  one  side  of  a  quarter 
section  of  irrigated  corn  half  a  mile  away,  looking  about  as  big  as 
a  pocket  handkerchief,  is  taken  off  with  a  sliding  finger,  and  then 
four  times  increased  on  the  length  of  the  pencil,  giving  a  propor- 
tionate mile,  the  length  so  shown  is  again  at  arm's  length  sighted 
against  the  rising  side  of  a  hill  just  beyond  the  corn  patch.  It 
covers  something  less  than  the  twentieth  part  of  the  length  of  the 
incline  from  base  to  peak,  beyond  which  most  likely  rises  another 
yet  nobler  in  height  and  contour. 

Page  15 


16  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


They  sweep  and.  soar  and  tower.  One  can  only  contemplate 
in  silence,  and  thankfulness  that  it  has  been  given  one  to  see  these 
things,  the  while  there  hangs  in  memory — haply  to  an  old  Gregor- 
ian chant  remembered  from  school  days'  morning  chapel — a 
sentence  from  the  Venite:  "In  his  hand  are  the  four  corners  of 
the  earth,  and  the  strength  of  the  hills  is  his  also." 

"The  strength  of  the  hills" — that's  the  word. 

The  dining  car  is  deserted,  except  for  the  waiters  and  the 
steward  at  his  typewriter,  preparing  his  bills  for  the  day.  Over 
an  early  cup  of  tea,  the  steward  is  good  enough  to  talk  to  me. 
He  is  a  spare,  dark  man,  carrying  responsibility  with  polite  ease, 
and  with  a  manner  of  speaking  that  makes  one  feel  he  has  a  work- 
man's pride  in  his  job.  A  comment  on  the  finished  perfection  of 
the  service  his  men  give,  and  the  utter  invisibility  of  his  machinery 
brings  the  acknowledgment:     "There  is  a  good  bit  of  it. " 

He  fishes  out  a  requisition  sheet  for  food,  wines,  and  cigars 
only,  and  passes  it  to  me  with  a  smile.  I  count  the  items  in  half 
a  column,  and  mentally  add  seven  close  set  columns  of  small  type. 

"Five  hundred  and  twenty-five  items,"  I  sum. 

"Exclusive  of  crockery,  napery,  silver,  and  housekeeping 
supplies,"  he  nods.  "To  provide  for  an  estimated — no — worked- 
out  average  of  between  forty  and  fifty  guests  one  meal  each  be- 
tween Chicago  and  Ogden  at  this  time  of  year." 

"That,  of  course,  means  bookkeeping?" 

"Yes,  but  mine  lies  within  defined  limits.  The  really  fine 
figuring  is  done  at  the  head  office  on  the  separate  reports  from 
each  car  taken  all  together." 

Our  further  talk  covered  the  heads  of  the  difference  between 
scientific,  non-wasting  provision  for  variable  travel,  and  provision 
for  large  bodies  of  men  moving  all  together,  provision  for  railway 
construction  camps  and  section  hands,  cooking,  and  provisioning 
in  old-time  lumber  camps  on  the  coast;  his  trip  through  the 
Canadian  Rockies  and  Selkirks  to  Vancouver  and  back  in  charge 
of  commissariat  for  Mr.  Schiff  of  Kuhn,  Loeb  and  Co. ;  his  firm 
conviction  that  travelers  should  see  America  first,  and  the  proba- 
bility that  they  would  next  season,  as  a  result  of  the  war.  His 
own  home  place  was  Omaha,  and  he  had  a  wife,  and  two  children 
going  to  school. 

One  took  note  of  the  fact  that  the  conductors  and  trainmen 


In  the  Mountains  17 


were  men  past  middle  life,  gray  headed,  gray  mustached,  when 
they  were  not  clean  shaven,  with  an  awake  and  responsible  bearing 
that  put  them  in  a  class  by  themselves.  One  such,  a  conductor 
with  a  prelatically  cleancut  face  and  a  bearing  that  would  have 
graced  an  archbishop,  who  has  been  on  the  road  traveling  that 
run  for  thirty-five  years,  admitted  me  to  a  pleasant  conversa- 
tional fellowship  between  stations. 

The  hills  are  sliding  by,  sliding  by.  Down,  down,  down  we  go 
from  the  summit.  Every  section  crew  we  pass  waves  a  friendly 
greeting.  The  sky  is  clear,  the  air  is  crisp — a  wine-like  air  in 
truth.  From  the  meadows  rise  the  buffalo  birds  in  flocks,  alter- 
nated with  scattered  Colorado  magpies,  and  once,  a  flock  of  crows. 

"OGDEN,     Next  stop." 

"Check  your  baggage,  Jimmy.  We  change  for  Salt  Lake 
City  here." 

The  baggage  is  transferred  and  we  wait  for  our  train  to  be  made 
up.  In  the  interval  I  reflect  again  on  the  splendid  sustained  chords 
of  the  descent  down  the  long  grades,  timed  by  the  tympani  of  the 
rail  joints,  and  irregularly  crescendoing  into  the  diapasoned  roar — 
the  full  orchestra — a  score  of  octaves  deep,  of  some  culvert  whose 
piers  and  girders  all  together  chant  our  passing. 

Leaving  Ogden,  the  meadows  open  wider.  The  Lombardy 
poplars,  that  for  an  hour  past  have  been  seen  scattered  singly  and 
in  twos  and  threes,  now  form  into  files,  double  column  of  twos, 
and  battalions. 

"That 's  the  Mormons,  Jimmy,"  William  informs  me.  "They 
planted  those  poplars  all  over  the  shop.  Wherever  in  this  part 
of  the  West  you  see  the  Lombardy  poplar,  that's  a  Mormon 
colony." 

Farmstead  succeeds  farmstead,  always  and  ever  with  trees 
planted  round  about.  In  the  river  bottoms,  below  the  floor  of 
the  valley,  the  cottonwoods  lean  to  the  wind. 

"Jimmy,  that's  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  and  the  Wasatch  Range." 
And  as  1  look,  adding  the  seen  splendor  of  the  great  chain  that 
bluely  floats  above  the  quiet  waters  to  the  little  I  recollect  of  that 
dramatic  chapter  of  the  West's  history,  I  pick  up  a  sentence  here 
and  there  of  the  summary  of  Mormon  history — the  past  and 
present  status  of  the  faith,  moral  and  politico-social  reasons  for 
the  institution  of  polygamy,   that  William  is  delivering  to  two 


18  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


other  deeply  interested  listeners,  in  the  intervals  of  borrowing 
matches  from  me. 

What  a  valley!  What  a  man!  What  a  people;  trained  in 
habits  of  industry,  sobriety,  thrift,  and  union  to  a  specific  code 
of  religious  and  social  obligation,  he  brought  together.  Who? 
Brigham  Young.  One  point  of  William's  summary  is  an  attention- 
compelling  reason  for  the  tenet  that  has  occasioned  the  bitterest 
attacks  upon  the  Mormon  church.  "The  institution  of  plural 
wives,  a  social  necessity  to  provide  population  for  the  land,  was 
in  the  beginning  initiated  by  Joseph  Smith  and  Brigham  Young 
as  a  reward  for  conspicuous  morality,  thrift,  industry,  and  social 
responsibility.  Consequently,  for  the  most  part,  the  duty  fell 
only  to  those  financially  capable  of  properly  caring  for  more  than 
one  wife,  and  who  had  been  proved  socially  and  morally  worthy. 
And  heredity  holding  good,  those  qualities  have  been  handed  down 
to  a  succeeding  generation  of  a  greater  number  than  would  other- 
wise have  been  possible." 

It  seems  an  explanation  worth  considering,  and  by  this  time 
arrived  at  Salt  Lake  City,  the  bunch,  passing  up  town  by  auto- 
mobile, seem  agreed  on  the  proposition  that  Brigham  Young  is 
entitled  to  rank  among  the  great  civilizers  of  the  western  hemi- 
sphere, qualified  by  William's  statement  that  Smith  and  he  were 
themselves  succeeded  by  very  able  men. 

Salt  Lake  City  gives  one  an  impression  of  wide,  clean,  well- 
kept  streets,  the  majesty  of  the  hills  crowning  their  perspective. 
Great  trees  rank  the  sidewalks.  There  is  a  warm  sun  in  a  cloudless 
sky.  We  pass  the  temple.  It  is  of  bastard  Gothic — an  archi- 
tecturally shameless  building,  unspeakably  bad,  but  echoing  the 
spirit  of  its  time  and  people.  In  the  square  adjoining  is  a  bronze 
monument  to  the  first  settlers  of  the  valley  and  founders  of  the 
city.  Mormon  farmers  are  identified  among  the  healthy  looking, 
smoothly  moving  crowds  on  the  streets.  There  is  a  salt 
tang  in  the  air.  One  sees  the  farmer  face  again.  What's  it 
like?  I've  got  it:  Boer.  After  all,  why  not?  A  corresponding 
environment  and  occupation,  a  hard  and  fast  creed,  patriarchal 
authority  over  his  women-kind — certainly  the  same  type  of  face 
may  come. 

At  a  hat  store.  Art  and  Bill  try  a  cowboy  hat  upon  me.  It 
sits  most  comfortably,  and  the  broad  brim  is  a  comfort  to  the  eyes. 


In  the  Mountains  19 


"Say,"  commends  Art,  "he  looks  all  right  in  that.     May  I  make 
you  a  present  of  it,  Jimmy?" 

"Hold  on,  I'm  in  this.  We're  going  to  get  him  a  band  for 
it."  And  William  with  discriminating  care  selects,  and  deftly 
adjusts  an  embossed  leather  band.  "Now,  Jimmy,  the  crown  of 
this  hat  has  to  be  punched  just  so."  William  with  two  fingers 
pokes  the  crown  of  the  hat  in  two  places,  producing  four  dents 
equidistant  of  the  two  cranial  meridians,  and  adding  the  indefinable 
touch  that  is  of  the  West  western.  "And  it  must  sit  so."  He 
illustrates,  and  so  doing,  makes  clear  that  on  the  range  equally 
with  Bond  Street  or  Pall  Mall  there  is  also  binding  the  unwritten 
law  of  style  to  govern  the  properly  clothed  man. 

They  leave  me  at  lunch,  with  a  last  injunction  to  be  sure  and 
see  the  Tabernacle  before  they  rejoin  me  at  the  Hotel  Utah, 
visibly  anxious  that  I  shall  not  fail  in  that  duty  to  Salt  Lake  City 
and  the  faith,  apparently  by  a  lex  non  scripta  binding  upon  every 
new  visitor  to  the  Mormon  metropolis. 

At  dinner  at  the  Hotel  Utah  we  were  waited  upon  by  a  head 
waiter  of  as  nearly  as  could  be  determined,  half  Chinese,  half 
negro  blood,  of  a  surpassingly  grotesque  ugliness,  reminding  one 
of  some  Japanese  war  mask,  beautiful  in  its  very  diabolism  of 
feature,  with  the  speech  of  a  professor  of  English  and  the  manners 
of  an  ambassador.  In  the  midst  of  dinner,  a  singer  bursting  forth 
with  an  astonishing  volume  of  sound,  the  prior  efforts  of  the 
orchestra  having  been  of  no  special  excellence,  the  difference 
between  their  aspect  in  evening  dress  and  their  performance,  led 
Bill  to  remark  upon  their  likeness  to  the  doorman  upstairs  in  a 
wine-colored  livery,  with  a  silk  hat  on  his  head,  and  a  chew  of 
tobacco  in  his  face. 

Presently  after  dinner,  again  to  the  depot,  and  once  more  upon 
our  way  to  the  promised  land,  our  final  destination  being  Yellow- 
stone, the  tourist  terminal  at  the  entrance  to  Yellowstone  National 
Park.  In  the  most  matter-of-fact  way,  the  train  once  under  way. 
Art  and  Bill  settled  to  their  card  game  begun  the  first  night 
out  from  Chicago,  and  which  seems  to  comfortably  take  the  place 
of  all  things  else  to  them.  They  have  already  tabbed  up  an 
unwieldy  score  of  points  on  either  side,  and  might  have  shortly 
sore  need  of  an  adding  machine,  but  for  the  simple  device  of 
subtracting  one  score  from  the  other,  leaving  one  man   plus   a 


20  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


few  points  and  the  other  flat  for  a  fresh  start.  Sleepily  noticing 
a  slight  up  grade,  a  cloudy  night  without,  and  a  chilly  wind 
that  seemed  to  promise  rain,  the  artist  went  to  bed  and  left  them 
at  it. 


THE  FIRST  CAMP 


Tuesday  the  fifteenth. 

At  daylight  this  morning,  through  a  driving  sleet  storm  from 
the  west,  a  low-lying  stream,  whose  deep  channel  paralleled  the 
railway  tracks,  was  made  out  through  drifting  mist.  Its  banks  on 
the  farther  side  rose  into  raggedly  timbered  heights  that  lost 
themselves  in  low  hanging  clouds.  This  was  the  headwater  of 
the  south  fork  of  the  Madison  river.  It  was  a  good,  steady, 
persistent  sort  of  storm;  there  was  no  question  about  that.  But 
the  travel  of  a  train  has  a  noticeably  mitigating  effect  on  even 
the  most  determined  looking  foul  weather.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  removing  beyond  the  sphere  of  influence.  By  the  time  Yel- 
lowstone was  reached,  there  was  a  sensible  moderation,  though 
back  up  the  tracks  it  could  be  seen  raging  over  the  hill  tops  in 
as  pretty  a  mess  of  flying  wrack  as  ever  descriptive  writer  laid 
himself  out  to  picture. 

In  occasional  flurries  of  sleet,  and  a  lightening  of  the  southern 
sky,  a  half  promise  of  a  break  in  the  weather  which  might  or  might 
not  be  realized,  we  debarked.  Breakfast  was  had  at  the  depot. 
At  the  tables  in  the  dining  room  were  gathered  the  obvious  after- 
guard of  the  summer's  sightseers,  a  scattered  and  reminiscent 
remnant  of  the  seasonal  army  that  passes  in  and  out  of  the  national 
park.  After  breakfast,  waiting  for  conveyances,  a  pair  of  pointers 
caught  the  artist's  eye.  Desiring  their  further  acquaintance,  he 
unthinkingly  whistled  to  them,  but  was  in  kindness  checked 
by  William. 

"Jimmy,  that 's  a  bad  break.  You  mustn't  ever  do  that  again. 
To  call  another  man's  dog,  unless  you  're  in  charge  of  him,  is  one 
of  the  seven  deadly  sins  of  the  sportsman's  code." 

From  Yellowstone  by  concord  and  wagon  the  further  way  lay 
through  sagebrush  levels  of  lodgepole  pine,  skirting  and  crossing 
the  main  stream  of  the  Madison  to  our  camping  ground,  in  a  bend 
of  the  Madison  river,  at  an  altitude  of  6,500  feet,  in  heavily 
timbered  country,  eight  miles  from  Yellowstone  and  five  from 
Grayling  postoffice,  Montana.  In  the  continuing  storm  we  found 
tents  pitched  and  all  things  made  ready.     We  were  welcomed  to 

Page  21 


22 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


camp  by  Fred  Reichenbach  (Swiss,  from 
Berne,  six  years  in  this  country)  and  Jay 
Whitman,  from  Davis  County,  Missouri 
— as  he  himself  acknowledges,  one  of  the 
gentlemen  who  have  to  be  shown — and 
otherwise  a  self-possessed  quiet  man  with 
a  happy  smile  and  a  sandy  mustache. 
On  the  way  out  to  camp,  the  only 
life  observed  was  a  gray  squirrel,  who,  regardless  of  the  weather, 
seemed  bent  on  making  a  busy  best  of  things. 

There  is  in  the  camp  a  well  bred,  finely  mannered  liver  and 
white  pointer  dog.  Jay  by  name,  son  of  a  famous  prizewinner  once 
owned  by  Bill.  With  him  are  two  black-and-tan  fox  hounds. 
Trailer  and  Chambeau,  far  larger  than  their  English  brethren, 
weighing  eighty  pounds  each,  owned  by  Fred.  These  are  classed 
by  Bill  as  the  finest  of  their  kind  within  his  memory.  All  three 
dogs  are  sociable,  but  Jay  has  a  gentle  self-effacingness,  though 
of  unquestioned  spirit  and  courage,  that  makes  him  a  very  enjoy- 
able companion.  The  hounds  are  obedient  to  a  word,  but  at  the 
same  time  dignified  and  self  respecting.  They  do  not 
fraternize  with  the  pointer,  but  their  politeness  to  him 
and  his  gentlemanly  acceptance  of  the  situation 
is  an  object  lesson  in  deportment.  Respecting 
each  other's  different  breeding  as  they  do, 
they  are  very  good  friends. 
Sleet  and  wind  contin- 
ued throughout  the  after- 
noon, but  there  was  little 
heed  for  weather  in  the 
immediate  business  of  un- 
packing camp  impedimenta, 
unrolling  blankets,  sorting 
out  clothes,  and  making 
beds.  Our  camp  accommo- 
dation consisted  of  a  sleep- 
ing tent,  messtent,  cook  tent 
and  guide's  tent. 

As  we  began  to  prepare 
Trailer  and  Chambeau  our  respective  couches  in  the 


The  First  Camp  23 


sleeping  tent,  Arthur  tendered  his  camp  fellows  each  a  particu- 
larly wide  and  heavy  dark  green  blanket,  at  least  half  an  inch 
thick,  of  a  weight  and  length  of  nap  quite  outside  common 
experience. 

"They'll  make  good  outside  wraps  for  your  blankets,"  he 
assured  us. 

"Never  saw  any  like  'em  before,"  commented  the  artist. 
"What  are  they — lap  robes?" 

"Been  using  them  for  that." 

The  artist  looked  interrogative.  Art  expounded  further; 
"They're  papermaker's  felts,  Jimmy.  About  the  most  important 
part  of  a  papermaking  machine  is  the  felt.  That's  an  endless 
belt  of  great  width  and  length,  made  of  the  very  finest  wool — ab- 
solutely pure.  It's  probably  the  most  expensive  thing  of  its 
kind  on  the  market.  It  goes  up  to  a  dollar  a  pound  in  thousand 
pound  lots.  This  blanket  passes  over  the  rollers,  and  receives 
the  newly  formed  damp  sheet  of  paper.  It's  made  without  laps. 
It's  an  expensive  and  particular  part  of  the  machinery,  and  is 
handled  with  a  good  deal  of  care.  If  it  gets  the  least  bit  damaged 
it  has  to  be  taken  off.  It  can't  be  patched,  for  the  patches  would 
show  on  the  paper.  This  was  a  brand  new  blanket,  put  on  the 
machine  for  the  first  time.  An  accident  happened,  and  it  was  torn. 
That  killed  it  for  the  paper  business,  so  I  had  it  taken  off  and 
dyed  green,  and  made  up  into  lap  robes." 

Art  displayed  also,  and  later  wore  with  a  great  deal  of  hardi- 
hood against  cold  weather,  a  blanket  suit,  handsomely  tailored 
from  another  section  of  the  same  damaged  felt.  The  blankets  so 
provided  were  quite  the  warmest,  most  cold  repelling,  and  alto- 
gether the  finest  under  and  top  casing  for  a  camp  bed  either 
member  of  the  party  had  ever  slept  in. 

In  the  late  afternoon  coots  and  redheads  to  the  number 
of  thirty-eight  or  forty  dropped  down  on  the  river  within  two  hun- 
dred yards  of  camp.  Odd  flights  of  ducks  were  observed  west  of 
camp  just  upon  sundown. 

At  sundown,  estimated  time  6:20,  the  storm  broke,  the  sky 
cleared  in  the  west,  and  a  clear  night  succeeded.  As  we  sat  at 
supper,  the  stars  blazed  in  the  void  of  night,  and  the  evening  star, 
hanging  low  in  the  west  like  a  dwarfed  moon,  winked  a  promise 
of  clear  days  to  come.     A  hoarse-voiced  old  mallard  drake  calls 


24  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


for  his  mates  on  the  river  not  far  from  camp.  Floating  up  out 
of  the  darkness  beyond  the  ruddy  circle  of  the  fire  before  the 
messtent,  it  is  a  sound  eloquent  of  the  open  and  the  mystery  of 
the  wild  night. 

After  supper  again  came  the  continuing  card  game  by  the 
two  seniors  in  camp  life,  on  the  end  of  the  messtent  table,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  much  tobacco,  and  under  the  interested  super- 
intendence of  Fred  and  Jay,  the  while  the  artist  busily  scribbled 
down  impressions  and  in  turn  contemplated  the  campfire,  and  the 
wavering  into  sight  and  out  again  of  the  surrounding  pines  beneath 
which  the  horses  quietly  munched  their  feed,  in  the  alternate 
leaping  and  falling  of  the  flames. 

We  slept,  inducted  into  our  slumbers  by  the  grateful  warmth 
of  a  small  square  sheet-iron  camp  stove  in  one  corner  of  the  sleep- 
ing tent,  tended  for  some  time  beforehand  by  the  genial  Whit- 
man, to  dissipate  the  storm-bred  damp. 


THINGS  ABOUT  CAMP 

Wednesday  the  sixteenth. 

"The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 
And  it  is  well-nigh  day. 
And  Harry  our  King  is  gone  hunting 
To  bring  his  deer  to  bay. 

To  bring  his  deer  to  bay. 

"The  eeist  is  bright  with  morning  light. 
And  darkness  it  is  fled; 
And  the  lusty  horn  calls  up  the  morn 
From  off  his  lazy  bed. 

From  off  his  lazy  bed." 

Thus  the  artist,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  for  the  grateful 
titillation  of  his  own  satisfied  ears  and  the  awakening  of  his  fel- 
lows, the  morning  after  arrival  in  camp. 

William  rolled  lazily  over  and  grinned  amiably. 

" Where 'd  you  learn  that,  Jimmy?"  queried  Art. 

**  It's  an  old  hunting  song  of  the  eighth  Harry's  time  we  used 
to  sing  in  chorus  when  I  was  a  kid  at  school." 

"Fine,"  commended  William.     "Now,  you  learn   this,"  and 


Things  About  Camp  25 


William  proceeded  to  pour  out  upon  the  morning  air  the  melodic 
history  of  an  elderly  gentleman  who  appeared  to  be  sadly  up 
against  it,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his  utmost  efforts  could  accomplish 
nothing  to  his  satisfaction. 

"The  old  gentleman  seems  to  have  been  in  hard  luck,"  com- 
mented the  artist.     "Is  that  the  regular  matin  song  in  camp?" 

"It  is  in  some,  and  a  good  many  more  places  not  camps." 

These  cryptics  are  here  set  down  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
may  be  wise  to  the  things  hidden  from  the  non-initiate.  A  morn- 
ing toilet  in  camp  is  distinctly  an  impromptu  affair.  One  of  the 
two  Jays,  both  being  interested  spectators,  inquired  of  the  artist: 

"The  English  always  wash  in  cold  water,  don't  they?" 

"It's  a  national  institution,"  he  was  gravely  assured.  "Of 
course,  it  kills  a  good  many  of  them,  but  those  that  survive  grow 
up  with  remarkably  hardy  constitutions.  Among  some  it  is 
reckoned  more  dangerous  to  drink  it." 

The  first  breakfast  in  camp  had  something  of  the  feeling  of  a 
religious  observance,  which  added  to  the  savor  of  fried  ham,  pota- 
toes, soda  biscuit,  jam,  and  coffee,  all,  of  course,  preceded  by  the 
introductory  oatmeal. 

Camp  housekeeping  is  a  simple  matter.  The  flat  dweller 
does  not  realize  how  many  things  can  be  eliminated  with  no  special 
inconvenience  until  he  comes  where  they  are  not  to  be  had.  The 
messtent,  its  entrance  facing  the  north,  has  for  a  table  a  few 
planks,  or  more  likely  a  few  saplings,  trimmed  smooth  on  the 
upper  side  with  the  axe,  laid  side  by  side  upon  cross  pieces  sup- 
ported on  posts  driven  into  the  ground  to  table  height.  Upon 
these  again  is  a  length  of  oil  cloth  smoothly  laid,  on  the  farther 
end  of  which  are  stacked  the  various  bottles  and  cans  containing 
comestible  comforts  that  fill  up  the  chinks  between  the  staples 
of  a  meal.  A  couple  of  halved  logs,  supported  on  posts  driven 
in  the  ground  either  side  of  the  table,  furnish  sufficiently  com- 
modious seats.  With  trunks,  beds,  rod  and  gun  cases,  and  mis- 
cellaneous impedimenta,  or  as  would  be  said  in  the  Coast 
Chinook,  "ictas,"  at  the  sides,  it  quickly  acquires  a  populated  and 
homelike  appearance. 

At  its  left  side  is  the  sleeping  tent,  its  sides  held  and  bound 
with  logs,  and  within,  the  piled  hay  that  makes  the  foundation 
of  the  nightly  couch  held  within  bounds  by  another  log  laid  on 


26  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


the  ground  from  side  to  side.  On  one  side  near  the  door,  on  a 
low  platform  of  sand  held  within  short  logs,  stands  a  small  square 
sheet-iron  stove,  its  flue  passing  through  the  tent  roof,  the  canvas 
protected  with  a  square  of  sheet  iron.  Taking  small  billets  of 
wood  cut  with  the  axe,  not  more  than  six  or  eight  inches  long, 
such  a  stove,  for  all  its  small  size  is  capable  of  bringing  up  the 
interior  to  a  comfortable  pitch  in  even  the  bitterest  weather. 
Its  good  effect  may  be  further  conserved  by  banking  snow  round 
the  sides  of  the  tent.  To  the  right  is  the  guides'  tent,  its  back  to 
the  square  of  which  it  forms  the  third  side  with  the  other  two,  and 
its  entrance  facing  that  of  the  cook  tent,  as  much  as  it  is  presumed 
for  the  benefit  of  warmth  from  the  cook  tent  as  for  the  convenience 
of  passing  from  one  to  the  other,  they  being  separated  by  a  narrow 
alley.  The  interior  of  the  guides'  tent  is  much  as  that  of  the 
sleeping  tent.  In  the  cook  tent  a  kitchen  table  is  supplied  by  a 
few  saplings  laid  side  by  side  on  posts.  The  stove,  rather  larger 
than  the  one  already  described,  and  with  an  oven,  is  likewise 
upon  a  log-confined  platform  of  sand.  Canned  goods  are  stacked 
on  the  end  of  the  table,  meats  hang  from  the  ridgepole  overhead, 
besides  other  comestible  items.  Such  cooking  utensils  as  are 
needed  are  hung  near  the  stove.  Of  these  the  chief,  of  course,  is 
the  frying  pan,  which  in  the  hands  of  an  expert  camp  cook  can  be 
put  to  a  far  greater  variety  of  uses  than  are  commonly  dreamed  of 
by  even  the  most  resourceful  housewife.  Heavy  bags  of  provis- 
ions, potatoes,  beans,  flour,  and  the  like,  stand  under  the  table. 
The  water  bucket,  its  contents  changed  often  from  the  nearby 
river  or  spring,  with  its  dipper  or  drinking  cup,  stands  near  the 
door.  Stovewood,  cut  to  length  and  split,  is  neatly  stacked  near 
the  stove.  With  all  its  extemporaneity  of  arrangement  there  is 
yet  about  the  cook  tent,  especially  if  the  man  in  charge  be  a  real 
camp  cook,  an  aspect  of  competent  resourcefulness  comforting 
to  a  hungry  soul. 

In  the  center  of  the  space  defined  by  the  three  first  mentioned 
tents  is  the  campfire,  distributing  its  hallowed  warmth  and  light 
upon  all  quarters  alike.  Beyond  the  open  side  of  the  square,  in 
the  shelter  of  young  firs,  is  the  wagon,  about  which  the  horses, 
when  they  are  not  hobbled  and  turned  loose  to  graze  at  will, 
gather  in  equine  sociability.  To  one  side  of  these  is  the  woodpile, 
an  assemblage  of  freshly  fallen  young  firs  and  pines.     A  sawbuck 


Things  About  Camp  27 


is  extemporized  by  driving  into  the  ground  four  posts  X  wise, 
and  against  the  log  lying  in  the  sacrificial  cradle  thus  formed  lie 
the  cross-cut  saw  and  an  axe — the  two  most  important  tools  in 
making  any  kind  of  a  camp. 

About  the  first  thing  the  novice  in  camp  life  has  knocked 
into  him  with  kindly  severity,  is  the  importance  of  orderliness. 
There  being  no  such  conveniences  as  shelves,  drawers,  or  casual 
tables,  and  available  nails  or  hooks  being  few,  a  constant  practice 
must  be  made,  until  it  becomes  an  automatic  habit,  of  restoring 
everything  that  is  taken  up  and  used  to  the  precise  spot  from  which 
it  is  taken.  The  soap  is  always  to  be  found  at  the  same  point 
on  the  ground  beside  the  washbowl  or  at  the  margin  of  the  stream, 
and  the  camp  towel  near  by.  Some  campers,  of  course,  are  fussy 
enough  to  provide  their  own  individual  towels  and  soap  tablets — 
in  which  case  they  may,  of  course,  do  what  they  please  with  them. 
The  axe  must  be  replaced  always  in  the  same  place,  and  so  with 
all  other  "ictas,"  each  to  its  appointed  locus. 

The  next  thing  is  that  for  the  very  reason  that  there  is  no 
floor  to  be  swept  and  mopped,  in  the  messtent  or  elsewhere,  the 
habit  of  personal  neatness  is  for  common  health's  sake  of  com- 
manding importance.  Scraps  of  paper,  food  skins  and  so  forth, 
must  not  be  dropped  at  random,  but  must  be  orderly  disposed  of, 
preferably  by  fire.  This  was  pointedly  brought  home  to  the  artist 
the  first  evening  in  camp,  when  Art,  dropping  a  piece  of  sausage 
skin  on  the  messtent  floor,  remembered  himself,  and,  picking  it 
up,  admonished  Jimmy  on  the  need  above  set  forth.  His  little 
health  lecture  was  further  confirmed  by  William  with  the  state- 
ment that  even  where  the  utmost  care  had  been  taken,  any  hunt- 
ing camp  should  be  broken  after  two  weeks  for  health's  sake. 

It  is  a  matter  of  course  to  care  for  a  gun  or  a  fishing  rod. 
Quite  as  important  is  the  care  of  the  axe.  Of  all  tools  in  camp 
it  most  needs  to  be  handled  with  respect,  its  edge  nursed,  its  blade 
kept  bright,  and  strictly  reserved  in  use  for  its  own  proper  purpose. 
The  waste  of  energy  and  time  occasioned  by  an  axe  with  a  nicked 
and  dull  edge  caused  by  misuse  will  make  the  difference  between 
comfort  and  perilous  discomfort.  It  may  even  make  the  differ- 
ence between  life  and  death. 

A  little  to  the  rear  of  the  messtent,  its  margin  thickly  set 
with  lodgepole  pines  and  aspen,  whose  trunks  amid  willow  brush 


28 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


'^R»i^e/-At 


Ow  the  Madison  river 

rise  out  of  still  water  backed  up  by  construction  works  some 
distance  down  stream,  lies  the  river.  Twenty  paces  or  so  from 
the  angle  of  the  camp  is  an  opening,  slightly  swampy,  where 
drawn  up  upon  the  bank  lies  a  boat  a  few  degrees  more  open 
to  the  unstable  element  than  a  leaky  sieve,  destined  to  carry  us 
upon  projected  ducking  and  fishing  expeditions.  Frogs  scramble 
into  the  water  as  one  comes  near  the  margin. 

To  the  west  the  sagebrush-covered  flat,  pointed  with  a  few 
scattering  pines,  on  which  the  camp  is  situated,  is  bounded  by  a 
dense  bank  of  firs  interspersed  with  aspens.  Through  their  tops 
is  visible  at  intervals  the  crests  of  a  distant  range  of  mountains 
covered  with  fresh  fallen  snow — the  main  Madison  range — half 
hidden  by  drifting  cloud  through  which  a  doubtful  sun  struggles 
mistily.  East  rises  a  sagebrush  bank  that,  with  a  few  firs,  well 
shelters  the  camp.  Above  this,  another  flat  extends  a  mile  or  so 
east  and  north,  bounded  with  fir  forest.  A  few  hardy  adventurers 
from  the  main  body  are  scattered  irregularly  over  the  flat. 

Following  the  high  bank  above  the  river,  there  is  a  curious 
suggestion  of  hidden  life  borne  in  upon  one.  One  expects  any 
moment  to  see  some  dweller  of  the  wild — a  bear  maybe,  or  some 
great  elk — disclose  himself  at  the  edge  of  the  timber.  Expectant 
eyes   are   disappointed   until,  arriving  at   the   edge   of   the   high 


Things  About  Camp 


29 


bank  above  the  river  there  is  seen  on  the  flats  below  a  blue  heron. 
Alertly  still,  aloof,  one  has  but  time  to  recall  Whittier's  lines: 

"Lo,  there  the  hermit  of  the  waters, 
The  ghost  of  ages  dim. 
The  fisher  of  the  solitudes 
Stands  by  the  river's  brim." 

A  foot  crunches  upon  loose  stones,  a  twig  creaks,  and  he  rises  and 
saunters  away  through  the  air  with  an  easy,  unhurried  flight 
that  causes  a  speculation  whether,  feathered 
aristocrat  that  he  is,  he  be  not  well  ac- 
quainted with  Lord  Chesterfield's  maxim 
that  though  a  gentleman  may  be  in  haste,  he 
is  never  in  a  hurry. 

The  willows  and  aspens  that  clothe  the 
steep  bank  below  are  ablaze  with  the  tinting 
of  the  early  frosts.  The  river  flows  placidly 
by,  and  far  across  its  breadth,  broken  with 
innumerable  willow-forested  islets,  is  a  broad 
expanse  of  willow  swamp,  gloriously  golden 
and  orange  in  the  growing  light,  and  the 
brighter  in  color  for  the  opposition  of  the  firs 
that  line  the  distant  bank,  whose  dark  blue  green,  grayed  by 
distance,  cuts  sharp  against  the  far  hills,  through  a  great  gap 
— the  Madison  canyon — in  which,  far  upstream  the  river  comes 
forth.  Downstream  the  river  widens  into  a  bend,  whose  farther 
round  is  lined  with  just  such 
another  field  of  willows  un- 
der firs.  Through  a  valley 
to  which  the  hills  here 
descend  is  visible  a  yet 
farther  range,  whose  peaks 
lume  sunnily  white  with  new 
snow. 

To  the  west,  above  the 
tops  of  the  firs  below  in  whose 
shelter  lies  the  camp,  is 
visible    range    on    range    of 

mountains,  fairly  overpower-  '  '^'".\tiih'.'^'>*^'^*7i'^ 

ing    in     their     scale    and  "Here  I  halt  and  paint" 


A  feathered  aristocrat 


30  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


majesty,  the  fresh  snow  upon  their  great  shoulders  and  in  their 
hollows  bright  in  sun  from  a  rift  in  the  clouds  that  make  the 
overhead  gray. 

Here  I  halt  and  paint,  with  a  keen  delight  in  the  peaceful 
isolation  of  it  all,  whose  memory  will  carry  one  over  many  weary 
city  days  to  come. 

The  temperature  rises,  and  by  noon  the  sleet  and  snow  are 
gone  from  the  camp,  and  have  left  the  sagebrush  on  the  flats  above. 
Odd  pairs  of  ducks  were  observed  on  the  river,  and  near  to  camp 
California  robins,  cedar  waxwings,  camp  robbers  (a  variety  of  jay) 
and  finches.  The  robins  are  especially  tame  and  unconcerned. 
They  are  broader  of  beam  than  the  eastern  bird,  rather  larger  and 
more  heavily  built;  have  a  gray  spot  on  each  shoulder,  black 
heads,  and  haunt  the  water's  edge.  There  are  continual  excur- 
sions, alarums,  ambuscades,  and  free  skirmishes  between  them 
and  the  camp  robbers.  Elk  signs  were  reported  a  short  distance 
northwest  of  camp,  and  an  eagle  in  the  same  direction  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon.  Gray  and  red  squirrels  are  very  active. 
Trout  are  rising  quite  freely  on  the  river. 

In  spite  of  heavy  clouds  and  threatening  rain  in  the  afternoon, 
an  Evinrude  motor,  brought  by  Bill  from  Chicago  in  a  small 
trunk,  was  fitted  to  the  leaky  boat.  Guns,  decoys,  rods,  and 
fishing  tackle  were  overhauled.  Rods  were  set  up  and  experi- 
mentally whipped  in  the  hand,  as  a  test  of  joints,  spring,  and 
response.  Reels,  taken  from  a  box  that  was  handled  sacredly, 
as  a  reliquary,  with  comparison  of  their  mechanism  and  merits, 
were  apportioned,  each  to  its  rod.  There  was  an  inspection  of 
fly  books  and  leader  boxes.  Gun  barrels  were  squinted  through, 
and  though  speckless,  for  the  hundredth  time  the  lubricative  rag 
was  passed  through.  Breech  blocks  and  actions  were  tried,  oiled, 
and  wiped.  Ammunition  boxes  were  opened,  and,  critical  appraise- 
ment being  made  of  their  contents,  were  stacked  upon  the  messtent 
table,  where,  between  a  couple  of  militantly  red  Dutch  cheeses, 
flanked  by  the  other  tinned  and  jarred  comestibles,  they  suggested 
a  doubly  bellical  preparation.  These  several  things  were  done 
with  a  leisurely  care,  a  lingering  particularity  that  distinguished 
the  afternoons'  employment  as  being  the  ritualistic  crown  and 
cap  of  many  such  adjustments  and  inspections  o'  dull  evenings 
in  long  city-bound  months  preceding  the  supreme  event. 


Things  About  Camp 


31 


This  done,  William,  with 
Whitman,  decided  to  have  a 
try  for  duck,  scattered  pairs 
of  which  had  been  seen  in 
flight  over  the  river  all  after- 
noon, while  the  voices  of  still 
others  were  heard  from  the 
hidden  channels  between  the 
willow  islands  far  out.  They 
returned  some  time  after 
five  o'clock  with  four  fine 
full-grown  young  red-heads, 
taken  with  a  sixteen-gauge 
gun  in  a  fly-a-way  down- 
stream. Taken  over  by 
Fred  for  culinary  exploita- 
tion, the  fire  logged  up  for 


Jay  Whitman 


the  evening,  the  expectatory  interval  produced  from  Jay  some 
conversational  particulars  regarding  himself. 

He  came  to  Montana  in  1881,  thirty-three  years  ago,  just 
about  the  time  of  the  last  great  movement  of  the  now  extinct 
buffalo  herds.  He  has  never  been  back  to  Missouri  to  see  his 
folks  since.  He  started  back  once,  and  got  as  far  as  Omaha,  and 
the  prairie  country  of  the  East  weighed  upon  his  spirits  with  such 
monotony — "looked  so  damn  lonesome" — to  use  his  own  words, 
"that  I  turned  right  around  in  my  tracks,  and  came  back  to  the 
mountains.  No,  sir,  I  never  tried  it  again."  He  ranches  320 
acres  fifty  miles  from  St.  Anthony,  Idaho  with  a  wife  and  four 
children.  His  main  product  is  timothy  and  wild  hay,  which  at  the 
present  time  is  worth  around  $14.50  a  ton.  It  has  been  as  high  as 
$16.00.  In  the  memory  of  the  writer  it  has  been  put  up  and  sold 
in  the  Canadian  Northwest  for  $8.00  and  $12.00  a  ton. 

The  artist,  offering  some  question  as  to  the  habits  of  the 
grizzly  bear,  is  referred  to  Fred,  busy  in  the  cook  tent,  whence 
an  odor  of  duck  in  preparation  enticingly  circumambiates  the 
evening  air.  Asking  Fred  if  he  is  familiar  with  the  habits  of  the 
animal  in  question,  Fred  responds  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  "  I  have 
catched  quite  a  few,"  and  unhurriedly  adjusts  ham  slices  in  the 
frying  pan. 
3 


32 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


"Fred" 


"How  many?" 
"Maybe  five  or  six," 
and  he  turns  a  slice  of  ham, 
shifts  it  to  one  side,  and  lays 
another  beside  it.  "One 
pretty  nearly  gets  me  once." 
And  as  he  cuts  bread,  juggles 
ham,  duck,  and  fried  pota- 
toes on  to  their  respective 
plates,  and  makes  coffee, 
with  unhurried  calm,  he 
proceeds:  "I  sets  a  trap — 
I  catches  them  in  traps,  you 
know — und  I  chains  dot 
trap  to  a  green  log.  I 
guess  he  was  five  hundert 
pounds,  maybe  more  as  five 
hundert  pounds.  Und  1  don't 
see  him  for  two  or  tree  days,  und  then  I  thinks  I  better  look 
at  dot  trap.  Und  I  goes  mit  my  gun.  Und  dere  was  a  bear  all 
right.  He  vas  catched  by  der  forepaw.  Und  he  was  mad — py 
golly,  he  was  mad.  He  was  shoost  raising  hell  in  der  woods.  I 
hears  him  a  long  way  off.  Und  he  haf  dragged  dot  green  log 
half  a  mile  from  where  I  set  der  trap.  Und  when  he  sees  me  he 
gets  madder  yet.  I  reckons  I  better  shoot  him.  Und  I  don'd 
make  a  good  aim,  und  I  only  hits  him  in  der  leg.  It  hurts  him 
so  he  gets  so  much  madder  he  tear  his  paw  loose  from  der  trap, 
und  he  runs  to  reach  me  very  fast.  Py  golly,  you  bet  he  comes 
on  business.  Und  he  foam  at  der  mouth,  und  his  eyes  is  red. 
Und  I  shoost  happens  to  remember  I  ain't  got  only  that  one  more 
shot  in  my  gun.  So  I  don't  afford  to  dake  no  chances.  Und  I 
has  to  let  him  get  pretty  close  so  I  don't  miss.  He  vas  a  big  bear." 
"How  close  was  he  when  you  fired,  Fred?" 
"Oh,  aboud  six  feets." 

And  Fred  carries  the  grub  into  the  messtent,  and  proceeds 
to  hand  it  round,  with  a  cheerful  care  that  the  diners  shall  each 
receive  his  due  share  of  the  fruit  of  his  labors,  that  shows  his  pride 
in  his  job. 

Whitman    reports    that    the    storm    of    which    the    present 


Things  About  Camp  33 


threatening  cloudiness  is  the  hangover  started  last  Friday  eve- 
ning, the  1 1  th,  after  the  longest  dry  spell  for  this  section — over  five 
weeks — in  his  memory.  Fred,  worried  by  an  owl  that  he  declared 
was  hooting  at  him,  borrowed  Bill's  gun  and  bagged  the  bird,  and 
thereafter  sat  down  to  his  own  dinner  with  Jay  with  a  mind 
apparently  much  at  ease. 

A  clear  streak  of  pale  orange  in  the  east  before,  and  some 
light  in  the  west  after  dinner,  seem  to  promise  a  scattering  of  the 
clouds.  At  7 :30  p.  m.  the  sky  is  clearing  with  clouds  drifting  from 
the  west.  At  the  ground  level  what  air  does  stir  is  from  the  east. 
At  9  p.  m.  comes  a  fair  breeze  from  the  east,  and  the  northern  sky 
is  clear  though  overhead  the  clouds  yet  obscure  the  heavens. 
This  day  closes  with  a  blazing  campfire,  a  promise  of  fair  weather 
on  the  morrow,  and  a  great  peace  in  the  artist's  soul. 


TWO  DAYS  TOGETHER 


Thursday  the  seventeenth. 

Early  astir,  in  a  clear  and  frosty  morning,  after  a  cloudy 
night,  I  went  with  all  quietness  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  for 
some  time  unobserved,  was  able  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  a  con- 
siderable flock  of  ducks  close  to  shore.  In  the  frosty  mist,  just 
beginning  to  thin  under  the  advancing  sun,  they  dived,  preened, 
paddled,  talked  duck  talk,  played  tag,  and  every  little  while  some 
one  among  them  would  sit  up  on  his  tail  in  the  water  and  flap 
his  wings  for  sheer  exuberance  of  good  spirits.  There  is  a  cheerful 
sociability  about  the  duck  that  is  very  engaging.  Some  one  in 
the  camp  stirred  noisily,  an  old  drake  squawked  a  note  of  warn- 
ing, and  with  a  rush  of  wings  and  a  multitude  of  skittering  wakes 
as  they  rose,  the  entire  flock  took  flight. 

Immediately  after  breakfast.  Bill,  Art,  and  Jay  went  to 
repairing  the  alleged  boat,  effecting  also  a  more  secure  seating 
for  the  motor  at  the  stern.  I  went  to  painting  on  Papermaker's 
Flat,  above  camp.  To  one  fresh  from  the  city,  the  isolation  and 
silence  a  few  hundred  yards  from  camp  is  to  a  degree  impressive. 
And  yet  it  is  peopled,  for  in  the  absence  of  all  other  distractions, 
one  notices  subconsciously  the  slightest  movement.     The  stirring 


/-  X 


.r^ 


On  Papermaker's  Flat  ""^Vjh v.,*  iij^fcy 


Page  34 


Two  Days  Together  35 


of  a  spray  of  sagebrush,  be  it  by  the  wind  or  not,  the  quivering 
of  a  tuft  of  grass,  the  stirring  of  a  bird  in  a  clump  of  aspens  fifty 
yards  away,  the  passage  of  a  pair  of  wild  duck  down  the  river  just 
outside  the  angle  of  direct  vision,  the  hovering  of  an  eagle  high 
overhead — a  mere  speck  in  the  sky,  a  passing  butterfly,  the  rising 
of  a  stray  trout  to  a  fly  two  hundred  yards  away  on  the  river,  all 
such  small  things  bulk  as  large  in  consciousness  as  the  passage  of 
a  noisy  motor  van  down  a  quiet  residence  street  in  the  city,  but 
with  a  far  pleasanter  impression  upon  both  mind  and  nerves. 

As  I  painted,  there  was  a  harsh  scream  close  behind  and  above 
me.  A  great  squirrel  hawk  swept  over  my  head  and  settled 
on  the  limb  of  a  tree  within  ten  yards  or  so.  With  a  fine  disregard 
of  my  presence  he  made  his  morning  toilet,  spreading  his  tail  and 
each  beautifully  barred  wing  in  turn.  Little  unseen  things  scur- 
ried through  the  sagebrush.  Wrens,  black-caps,  finches,  and 
yellow-hammers  haunted  the  aspens  and  willows  near  at  hand. 
A  Colorado  magpie  or  two  passed.  Late  butterflies  prospected 
through  the  sagebrush,  seeking  for  flowers  that  had  departed, 
in  their  number  comprising  mourning  cloaks  (the  Vanessa  Antiopa), 
the  orange-tipped  brimstone,  small  painted  ladies,  and  black  and 
yellow  swallow-tails.  Wasps  also  were  noted.  On  the  river  were 
little  clubs  of  ducks,  each  after  his  own  kind.  An  eagle  passed 
overhead,  sailing  down  the  wind  with  still  wings,  and  the  effort- 
lessness of  his  flight  was  enough  to  make  one  cease  work  and  gaze 
after  the  diminishing  speck  till,  on  a  slight  shift  of  vision,  it  was 
lost  altogether. 

Back  to  camp  for  lunch,  to  find  that  the  two  papermakers 
have  been  out  during  the  morning  on  the  river,  and  have  brought 
back  four  ten-inch  Loch  Leven  trout,  offspring  of  those  planted, 
by  the  government  in  the  National  Park  twenty-two  years  since, 
taken  with  a  black-wing  Trude  fly.  These  they  insist  on  the 
artist's  eating  for  lunch,  since,  as  they  aver,  they  had  the  fun  of 
catching  them.  I  trust  that  my  enjoyment  of  them  gives  them 
the  further  pleasure  they  are  entitled  to.  Jay,  who  waits  on  table, 
regards  me  with  a  sympathizing  smile,  and  as  he  passes  the  coffee 
to  me,  says,  "You  certn'ly  seem  to  like  them  trout,  Jim." 

Again  in  the  afternoon  Bill  and  Art  went  abroad,  this  time 
for  duck,  while  up  on  the  flat  the  artist  carried  forward  work 
in   the  afternoon   light  projected  in  the  morning.     In   the   late 


36  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


afternoon  a  species  of  brown-winged  ephemerid  was  noted  fly- 
ing on  the  river,  and  trout  rising  to  it  freely. 

The  clouds  that  had  scattered  in  the  early  morning  began  to 
gather  again  toward  evening,  and  a  gray  sunset  followed.  Above 
the  firs  that  belted  the  western  edge  of  the  flat,  the  heights  of 
the  Madison  range  showed  in  cold  blues,  the  snow  on  their  crests 
and  in  the  hollows  in  a  chilly  white,  as  nearly  without  color  as 
snow  ever  is.  Behind  them  rose  a  great  bank  of  threatening  gray 
cloud,  slightly  purplish  in  tone.  A  little  distance  above  the  high- 
est crest,  the  clouds  broke,  and  with  their  edges  brilliant  with 
pale  yellow  light,  permitted  a  golden  sun  to  be  mistily  seen.  The 
landscape  below  fell  into  subdued  tones  of  gray,  which  came  into 
positive  color,  still  toned  with  gray,  only  in  the  near  foreground. 

Coming  toward  camp,  carrying  the  pastel  sketch  of  the  sunset 
just  made,  with  eyes  still  on  the  western  heaven,  the  light  changed 
within  sixty  seconds.  The  erstwhile  field  of  gray  cloud  broken 
with  pale  yellow  light  where  the  sun  broke  through,  became  a 
mass  of  striated  somber  crimson,  dully  flaring  over  half  seen 
deeper  tones  of  violet  gray.  Over  the  subdued  fire  of  this  there 
floated  feathery  flocks  of  cirrus  clouds  of  flaming  scarlet,  so  glow- 
ingly brilliant  as  to  cast  a  perceptible  light  upon  the  tops  of  the 
distant  pines,  and  on  every  light  reflecting  surface  turned  to  the 
west.  Low  down,  behind  the  mountain  tops,  glowed  a  broad  area 
of  red  orange,  against  which  the  peaks  were  darkly  defined.  A 
patch  or  two  of  clear  sky,  seen  through  openings  in  the  clouds 
glowed  in  luminous  blue-green,  with  a  depth  of  color  and  fullness 
of  light  hard  to  suggest  with  either  brush  or  pen. 

"Well,  Jimmy,"  saluted  Art,  as  with  Bill  he  came  from  the 
boat,  "  I  think  you  had  the  best  afternoon  of  any  of  us.  You  got 
what  you  went  after,  and  we  didn't  get  anything." 

After  dinner  Fred  produced  a  cribbage  board  which  he  had 
manufactured  during  the  afternoon  from  a  stray  piece  of  smooth 
scantling  that  happened  to  be  in  camp,  marking  off  the  divisions 
with  a  stub  of  lead  pencil,  and  forming  the  holes  with  a  four-inch 
wire  nail.  It  was  a  very  satisfactory  cribbage  board,  and  set 
upon  the  artist's  drawing  board,  on  a  conveniently  short  length 
of  log  on  end,  near  the  fire,  furnished  diversion  for  the  guides 
and  the  painter  man.  On  the  messtent  table  Art  and  Bill  took 
forward  their  own  special  contest  a  few  hundred  points  further. 


Two  Days  Together  37 


A  camp  without  tobacco  is  unthinkable.  The  equally  effi- 
cient substitute  for  thought  has  not  yet  been  discovered  or  devised. 
Nor  is  there  any  known  means  so  effective  for  bridging  the 
conversational  lacunae  that  often  occur  between  even  the  most 
sociably  inclined  of  camp  dwellers.  Art's  particular  addiction 
is  to  a  cigarette  before  breakfast,  which  he  rolls  himself  from  a 
pouch  that  contains  tobacco  and  papers  both.  In  the  matter  of 
cigars  also  Art  has  a  discriminating  and  matured  judgment,  while 
the  single  corona  to  each  that  Bill  passes  out  each  evening  is  of 
a  soul-satisfying  goodness.  Bill  does  not  smoke  cigars  when  he 
has  a  job  that  calls  for  active  use  of  his  hands.  At  these  times  he 
favors  a  fatbellied  briar — an  excellent  cadging  pipe — with  a  drop 
stem.  The  painter,  though  given  to  cigarettes,  in  the  field  prefers 
a  light  straight  bitted  briar,  as  needing  less  attention  than  any 
other  mode  of  consuming  the  weed. 

Early  to  bed  is  the  rule,  and  so,  somewhere  around  nine, 
with  an  overcast  sky  and  no  frost  in  the  air  the  day  ends. 


Friday  the  eighteenth. 

At  half  after  one  this  morning,  being  awake,  through  the  tent 
door  I  saw  the  stars.  Brilliant,  near,  in  this  high  clear  sky  they 
lit  the  night  as  never  in  the  smoke-shrouded  city.  It  was  frosty, 
and  the  fire  had  died  down  in  the  stove.  Awake  for  some  time, 
mentally  debating  whether  to  mend  the  fire  or,  being  up,  lay  on 
the  desired  extra  coverings  that  were  just  out  of  reach,  after  va- 
rious ineffectual  attempts  to  conserve  warmth  by  tucking  in  the 
edges  of  the  blankets  more  tightly,  a  decision  was  finally  arrived  at, 
to  do  both.  Presently,  the  fire  mended,  and  with  a  handy  overcoat 
drawn  up  to  my  chin,  and  much  more  to  my  comfort,  having  dis- 
turbed neither  of  my  tentmates,  I  fell  into  a  comfortable  sleep 
that  lasted  till  well  after  daybreak. 

After  breakfast,  in  a  clear  and  sunny  morning,  the  motor 
was  shipped  on  the  boat,  and  all  three  of  us  started  upstream  with 
rods  and  tackle  for  two  of  us  and  a  sketching  outfit  for  the  third. 
The  boat  ran  through  a  succession  of  sedgy  meadows  thicketed 
with  dog  willows,  from  which  a  heron  or  two  rose,  and  sailed  lazily 
away  to  a  new  stand.  Looking  downstream  to  the  west,  above 
the  tapestried  gold  and  russet  of  the  willow  meadows,  bounded 


38 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


^^   /  ^k-y^.' 


Looking  back  from  "a  bit  farther  upstream" 

by  a  line  of  dark  firs,  the  mountains  rose,  tier  on  tier,  into  a  sky 
of  liquid  blue. 

Landing  on  a  bar  below  the  great  cut  bank  of  obsidian  sand 
along  whose  top  the  trail  from  Yellowstone  runs,  the  two  fisher- 
men, Art  with  the  spoon  and  William  with  sundry  flies,  tried  the 
riffle  at  its  tail,  while  the  artist  went  to  his  own  occupation.  Art 
had  no  success.  William  reported  a  big  one  fooling,  but  failed 
to  strike  him.  It  was  concluded  to  go  a  bit  farther  upstream. 
Occasional  pairs  of  mallard  were  seen  on  the  passage  of  a  mile  or 
so  to  a  mid-stream  bar  with  deep  water  on  both  sides,  in  a  bend 
below  flat  sedge  meadows.  Here  William  took  two  Loch  Leven 
trout  in  half  an  hour  on  a  Reuben  Wood,  two  and  one-half  and 
one  and  one-quarter  pounds,  respectively.  The  heavier  fish  was 
full  of  roe.  No  results  were  had  with  the  spoon.  On  the  road 
back  to  camp  a  single  butterball  and  a  squirrel  hawk  were  noticed. 

A  showery  and  thunderous  afternoon  in  camp,  such  as  was 
this,  is,  or  can  be  made  full  of  small  and  comfortable  employments. 
Fred  was  busy  in  the  cook  tent,  devising  ways  and  means  for  the 
greater  efficiency  of  that  department;  William,  a  tackle  box  on 
his  knees,  assorting  leaders,  flies  and  hooks;  the  artist  at  an  easel, 
working  with  swift  decision,  fastening  down  the  impressions  of 


Two  Days  Together  39 


the  morning.  Arthur  contemplated  their  placid  industry  regret- 
fully, sighed,  shook  his  head  over  the  perverse  busyness  of  men 
who  apparently  hadn't  anything  better  to  do,  and  with  an  inde- 
pendence of  spirit  marking  the  man  so  far  master  of  his  soul  as 
not  to  be  drawn  by  the  magnetism  of  the  multitude,  calmly  lay 
down,  and  went  to  sleep. 

In  mid-afternoon.  Jay,  the  pointer,  prospecting  around  the 
edge  of  the  willow  swamp,  just  back  of  the  messtent,  made  a 
point.  William,  observing  it,  picked  up  a  gun  and  strolled  over 
that  way.  The  artist  sat  still,  and  painted  with  one  ear  a-cock. 
Presently  William's  gun  spoke. 

"What  was  it?  Get  him>"  queried  the  artist,  as  William 
came  by,  noting  at  the  same  time  that  Jay,  at  his  heels,  was  looking 
a  bit  puzzled,  as  if  unable  to  account  for  something. 

"No.  Jacksnipe,"  answered  William,  as  he  took  down  the 
cleaning  rod  and  an  oily  rag,  making  ready  to  clean  the  gun, 
though  he  had  fired  but  one  shot,  prior  to  putting  it  up. 

"Didn't  you  hold  straight?" 

"  I  did,  but  a  jacksnipe  doesn't  fly  straight."  And  in  succinct 
phrases  the  artist  was  made  aware  of  the  jacksnipe's  dodging,  zig- 
zag flight  at  high  speed,  which  makes  him  one  of  the  most  difficult 
tests  for  the  gunner's  skill. 

A  heavy  thunder-shower  and  a  high  wind  came  up  shortly 
after,  in  the  face  of  which  William,  with  Fred  for  oarsman,  took 
the  boat,  and  went  prospecting  for  duck.  Driven  back  to  camp 
by  stress  of  weather  they  reported  nothing,  though  a  large  flight 
of  ducks  was  seen  to  pass  east,  north  of  camp,  in  late  afternoon. 

At  sundown  the  storm  ceased.  In  the  east,  from  the  horizon 
to  overhead,  and  scattering  toward  the  west,  there  towered  a  solid 
bank  of  deep  blue-gray  clouds.  In  thunderously  blue  depths  they 
filled  the  heavens,  and  from  a  stormy  broken  gray  overhead,  down 
to  the  eastern  horizon  they  deepened  in  tone  to  a  gloomy  indigo, 
A  scattering  rain  still  sprinkled.  In  the  west  the  clouds  parted, 
and  from  the  break  there  came  a  sudden  flood  of  brilliant  golden 
light  which  made  firs  and  sagebrush  banks  rising  to  the  east 
fairly  flame  with  aureal  splendor  against  the  blue  depths  of  the  far 
horizon.  At  the  same  instant  there  sprang  forth,  crowning  it  all 
with  a  yet  more  terrible  beauty,  a  perfect  rainbow.  Its  light-born 
glory,  to  the  eye  seeming  more   than  the  half  circle  in  height. 


40  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


spanning  the  entire  visible  heaven  from  north  to  south,  its  crown 
almost  at  the  zenith,  shone  in  a  seven  fold  spectral  splendor 
brighter  even  than  the  golden  loveliness  of  the  landscape  framed 
within  its  triumphal  sweep. 

Slowly  the  pageant  of  the  heavens  departed,  and  with  the 
fading  of  the  light,  the  camp,  held  in  silence  by  the  greatness  of 
the  thing  just  seen,  found  its  voice. 

"A  rainbow  in  the  morning  is  the  seaman's  warning.  A 
rainbow  at  night  is  the  seaman's  delight,"  quoted  the  artist. 
"We'll  have  fair  weather  to-morrow." 

In  this  assurance  the  camp  went  to  dinner  on  the  trout 
taken  in  the  morning,  with  fresh  bread,  in  place  of  soda  biscuits, 
sent  over  by  the  postmistress  at  Grayling,  brought  by  Whitman, 
together  with  a  larger  cookstove  and  camp  sundries. 

Under  a  cloudy  sky,  but  secure  in  the  rainbow's  promise  of 
fair  weather  on  the  morrow,  the  camp  made  a  peaceful  end  of 
another  day. 


A  TRIP  FROM  CAMP 

Saturday  the  nineteenth. 

"What's  to-day,  Jimmy?"  queried  Art. 

"Saturday." 

"Gee.  You  don't  say  so.  Feels  like  we'd  been  away  from 
Chicago  seventeen  years — not  that  I  miss  anything.  And  the 
days  go  fast,  too.     And  we  haven't  been  doing  such  an  awful  lot." 

"Yes,  don't  they,"  regretted  the  artist.  "And  I  've  got  only 
one  pair  of  eyes  and  one  pair  of  hands." 

"The  next  week  will  go  faster,"  assured  William.  "You 
haven't  seen  the  real  stuff  yet.  We're  going  over  to  the  north 
fork  this  morning."  You'd  better  pack  some  extra  sketching 
material." 

With  the  boat  loaded  into  the  wagon,  together  with  mid-day 
grub,  and  shooting,  fishing,  and  sketching  "ictas,"  an  early  start 
was  made,  with  Jay  for  driver,  William  sharing  the  front  seat  with 
him,  and  Art  and  the  artist  comfortably  disposed  on  the  boat, 
with  all  the  tobacco  and  matches  they  needed.  The  other  Jay 
trotted  with  vast  content  beside  the  wagon,  and  amused  himself 
hugely  on  the  way  by  following  grouse  trails  through  the  sage- 
brush. 

With  dexterous  care  Whitman  guided  the  heavy  wagon 
through  fir  brush  and  up  the  steep  bank  on  to  the  plateau  above. 
Through  fir  woods  standing  in  sage,  and  east  of  the  southern  end 
of  a  great  fir-crowned,  rounding  rise  known  as  Horse  Butte,  we 
came  into  lovely  natural  meadows  of  wild  hay,  which  swept  away 
in  long,  subtly  rolling  curves  to  the  crown  of  the  butte  south 
and  west,  and  to  the  north  were  bounded  by  a  range  of  low  hills, 
thickly  fir  clad,  beyond  whose  heights  lies  the  Tepee  basin.  Pass- 
ing the  south  end  of  Horse  Butte  a  momentary  glimpse  is  had  of 
Mount  Sawtelle,  14,000  feet,  far  to  the  southwest,  and  a  little 
later,  passing  the  pine  woods  that  on  the  right  had  masked  the  view, 
Mount  Holmes,  a  ten-thousand-foot  height  in  Yellowstone  Park, 
crowns  the  northern  horizon.  West,  across  the  low  heights  of 
Horse  Butte,  which  extends  some  miles,  marking  the  southern 
boundary  of  the  basin  of  the  north  fork,  extends  the  great  chain 

Page  41 


42  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


of  the  main  Madison  range,  a  blue  wall  of  many-peaked  majesty 
that  crowns  and  closes  a  far-stretching  ocean  of  heaved  gold  that 
brightens  with  the  slant  of  sun  upon  the  crown  of  a  rise,  and  deep- 
ens to  the  pale  violet  of  the  hollows,  and  the  passage  of  a  cloud 
shadow,  and  in  whose  coulees  and  draws  the  aspens  flame  in  orange 
and  brilliant  gold. 

Coming  down  the  easy  slope  to  the  floor  of  the  valley,  the 
north  fork  of  the  Madison,  below  the  level  of  the  prairie,  makes  a 
wide  and  sinuous  sweep  among  reed  beds  compassing  numberless 
islets  of  willow  brush.  Following  the  south  bank  to  the  west  end 
of  the  valley,  a  halt  was  made  on  the  side  of  a  great  hill — a  north- 
ward extension  of  Horse  Butte — above  the  water,  close  to  the  point 
where,  in  a  deep  channel,  the  north  fork  leaves  the  lake.  Here, 
the  horses  unharnessed  and  left  to  graze,  the  two  hunters  with 
Jay  took  the  boat,  and  left  the  artist  to  his  own  devices. 

Lying  upon  the  hillside,  one  could  but  look,  and  look  and 
worship  the  very  beauty  of  it.  I  sketched  in  haste.  There  was 
but  one  pair  of  hands,  and  a  day  all  too  short.  Wild  duck  passed 
overhead  or  skimmed  over  the  water  below  every  few  minutes. 
A  splendid  fish  hawk  circled  over  the  lake.  A  grass  snake  and  a 
great  prairie  cricket  came  up  and  fraternized  with  me.  A  badger 
came  to  the  mouth  of  his  hole,  a  few  feet  in  front  and  gazed  curi- 
ously at  me.  The  interval  before  the  hunters  returned  for  lunch, 
bringing  back  one  mallard  and  a  widgeon,  was  all  too  short. 

After  lunch.  Art,  Bill  and  Jay  again  departing  in  the  boat 
for  further  sport  and  exploration,  the  easel  was  shifted  to  a  fresh 
point  commanding  the  far-off  Madison  canyon.  This,  a  great 
gap  in  the  line  of  hills  that  closed  the  eastern  horizon,  marking 
the  point  of  emergence  of  the  main  stream,  an  ochreously  bright 
sky  visible  through  its  depths,  combined  with  near  at  hand  willow 
banks  and  reed  beds  in  the  stream,  snow- threatening  clouds  over- 
head drifting  across  a  clear  sky,  whose  reflections  were  dragged 
down  in  the  water  into  long  columns  of  gray  light,  and  scattering 
breaks  of  yellow  sun  marking  the  fast  advancing  afternoon,  to 
form  a  most  impressive  composition. 

As  I  painted,  wild  bees  embarrassed  me  much  by  continually 
lighting  on  my  palette,  and  diving  head  first  into  my  colors,  getting 
themselves  terribly  messed  up.  Continually  I  had  to  lift  them 
out  and  put  them  on  my  coat  sleeve,  where  at  one  time  I  had  two 


A   Trip  From  Camp 


43 


or  three  wiping  off  the 
paint  and  cleaning  them- 
selves. They  mistook  the 
patches  of  bright  pigment 
for  late  wild  flowers,  I 
assumed.  It  was  notice- 
able that  they  did  not, 
having  cleaned  themselves, 
repeat  the  mistake.  It  was 
a  long,  lonely,  perfect 
afternoon,  with  such  a  love- 
liness of  prairie,  butte,  still 
river,  purple  and  rose 
mountains,  and  towering 
cloud  about  one  as  fed  to 
the  full  a  hungry  soul. 

Mallards,  canvasback, 
red-head,  green-winged  teal, 
and  wild  geese  were  re- 
ported by  the  fisher  and 
gunman,   who   returned  at 


^'Arthur  landed  his  fish" 


sundown  with  four  mallards,  six  jacksnipe,  one  fine  cut-throat 
trout  (Salmo  Clarkii)  and  a  grayling.  The  trout,  between  three 
and  three  and  one-half  pounds,  was  struck  by  Art  at  the  same 
moment  that  William  lifted  his  gun  on  a  fine  mallard.  The  mal- 
lard dropped,  and  as  William  rowed  to  get  the  bird,  Arthur  landed 
his  fish.     Beaver  cuttings  were  reported. 

On  the  road  back  to  camp  there  came  a  most  splendid  burst 
of  rayed  light  from  behind  the  mountains  to  the  west,  which,  strik- 
ing Mount  Holmes,  made  it  to  glow  with  a  deep  rose  light  against 
the  great  drifts  of  gray  clouds  that  filled  the  northern  sky.  The 
valley  below  was  filled  with  a  purplish  haze,  slightly  broken  here 
and  there  by  fields  of  sage.  The  haze  deepened  in  tone  toward 
the  northern  distance  till  finally  it  merged  into  the  deep  violet- 
gray  of  the  pine  forests  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  From  this 
pitch  of  tone  the  main  peak  rose  in  a  jewel-like  richness  of  deep 
toned  light  that  crowned  the  day  with  a  slowly  fading  glory. 

Reaching  camp  at  dark,  the  flame  of  the  campfire,  seen 
through  the  trees  as  we  approached  seemed  uncommonly  homelike 


44  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


and  welcoming.  The  place  where  is  bed,  board,  and  fire,  though 
it  be  but  a  square  of  cotton  cloth  on  four  sticks,  is  always  home. 

The  trout  taken  during  the  afternoon  furnished  supper.  A 
royal  fish,  and  royally  prepared,  inspired  the  artist  to  say,  "God 
bless  the  trout — aristocrat  and  king  among  fishes." 

"We'll  move  camp  to  the  north  fork  to-morrow,"  said 
William.  And  with  this,  in  a  clear  night,  with  sheet  lightning 
in  the  north,  the  camp  slept. 


THE  SECOND  CAMP 


Sunday  the  twentieth. 

The  overcast  sky  and.  the  easy  rain  falling  this  morning  were 
cheerfully  disregarded  in  the  immediate  prospect  of  jacksnipe 
on  toast  and  marmalade  for  breakfast. 

This  concluded,  Fred  went  to  work  with  Jay  to  strike  the 
cook  tent,  and  load  it  with  its  stove  and  provisions  into  the  wagon, 
as  the  first  load  to  be  taken  to  the  new  camp. 

This  going  forward,  Bill  took  a  bath  and  shaved,  and  desired 
express  mention  of  the  fact  in  this  record  for  the  benefit  of  whom 
it  might  concern.  Overhearing  this.  Art  also  desired  mention 
of  the  fact  that  this  was  also  the  day  of  his  annual  altogether 
ablution. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning  strolled  in  Fred  Lamoreaux; 
a  French-Canadian  acquaintance  of  Bill's,  from  his  ranch  in  the 
north  fork  valley.  In  small  occupations  and  packing  of  personal 
belongings  the  morning  went,  till  the  return  of  the  wagon.  Then, 
after  lunch,  the  remaining  three  tents  struck,  the  boat  and  all 
other  "ictas"  loaded,  in  a  drizzling  rain.  Art  and  Jim  in  their  old 
place  on  the  rear  of  the  load,  we  bade  farewell  to  the  old  camp,  and 
set  our  faces  for  the  new.  The  rain  continued,  a  steady  quiet 
dropping  that  promised  damp  ground,  a  general  steaminess,  and 
the  fullest  use  for  the  rubber  sheets  that  in  this  outfit  underlie 
all  beds.  Camp  was  reached  shortly  before  mid-afternoon,  on  the 
river  bottoms  just  under  the  big  hill  at  the  west  end  of  the  valley, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river,  opposite  and  some  distance  up 
stream  from  the  point  visited  the  day  preceding. 

In  a  busy  hour  and  a  half  after  arrival  at  the  new  ground, 
tents  were  pitched,  rubber  sheets  spread,  and  beds  made  with 
fresh  hay  brought  from  a  ranch  near  at  hand.  There  is  no  wood 
at  hand  where  we  are  now  camped,  merely  sage  and  prairie  rose 
brush.  Consequently,  we  have  no  campfire.  The  cook  stove 
in  the  cook  tent,  and  an  ordinary  camp  stove  in  the  sleeping  tent 
were  fed  with  such  wood  as  could  be  brought  from  the  old  camp, 
but  nevertheless  we  are  very  comfortable  though  the  messtent 
is  a  bit  damp. 

Page  45 


46 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


William  and  Arthur,  in  spite  of  the 
weather,  go  to  their  sempiternal  game  of 
rhum,  which  they  play  with  a  business- 
like earnestness  impressive   to   observe. 
It  supplies  to  them  the  place  of  all  other 
things  they  might  do,   and  very  much 
worse,  for   they  are 
the  gentlemen  appar- 
ently who  invented 
the  game.     Arthur's 
great  point  of  play 
appears  to  a  casual 
onlooker    to    be    in 
holding    cards,    and 
William's    in    freely 
drawing  and  discard- 
ing with  an  uncanny 
prescience,  be  it  said, 
of  what  he  is  likely 
to  catch.      Arthur's 
coups  take  time    to 
prepare,  but  they  land  with   the  effectiveness  of  a   twelve-inch 
shell  from  a  siege  gun. 

Last  evening's  mallards  with  boiled  potatoes  and  soda  bis- 
cuit, and,  of  course,  sundry  trimmings  from  cans  and  bottles,  made 
dinner.  There  is  a  heavy  Scotch  mist  outside.  Geese  and  ducks 
are  haunting  the  marshes,  and  helped  out  by  a  distant  band  of 
coyotes,  make  the  night  eerie  with  their  calls.  With  cheerful  com- 
pany in  the  messtent,  and  a  warm  stove  in  the  sleeping  tent,  in 
spite  of  the  weather,  all's  well. 


It  goes  on  forever 


Monday  the  twenty-first. 

A  cloudy,  chilly  dawn,  with  a  sodden  feeling  left  over  from 
the  previous  evening's  rain,  yet  presented  its  own  peculiar  beauty. 
Below  the  lowering  clouds  in  the  east,  a  lovely  pale  lemon  glow 
filled  the  width  of  the  Madison  canyon,  and  made  its  abrupt 
sides,  seen  at  this  distance,  loom  against  the  sky  with  startling 
impressiveness.     From  this  point  of  illumination  the  golden  light 


The  Second  Camp  47 


diffused  under  a  level  ceiling  of  gray  cloud  that  forwardly  over- 
head broke  against  clear  sky.  Against  the  light  low  in  the  east, 
the  rising  sage  benches  retired  in  gray  bulks  of  successively  lighter 
tone  into  the  distance,  with  here  and  there  on  the  crest  of  a  rise, 
a  hint  of  golden  light  from  the  dawn.  A  half  seen  wagon  trail 
vanished  in  a  roll  of  sage.  A  chill  wind  stirred.  Isolate,  still 
with  the  stillness  of  the  dawn,  it  was  beautiful  in  its  forsakenness. 

Presently  a  breeze  sprang  up,  dispersing  the  clouds,  the  sun 
came  forth  in  his  strength,  the  cloud  flocks  gathered  themselves 
into  the  hollows  of  the  hills  to  the  north,  and  presently  went 
away.     It  was  warm  and  clear  by  mid-morning. 

The  first  thing,  of  course,  was  firewood.  One  evening  with- 
out a  campfire  was  well  enough  in  its  way  when  it  could  not  be 
helped,  but  it  could  not  happen  twice  with  comfort.  So,  with 
axe  and  cross-cut  saw  loaded.  Jay  went  away  early  with  the  wagon 
to  get  the  week's  supply  of  wood. 

Bill  and  Art  were  early  away  in  the  boat  with  rod  and  gun, 
and  the  artist  to  painting  on  the  rise  west  of  camp.  Here  grouse 
were  plentiful  in  the  sagebrush.  Fresh  earth  was  at  many  badger 
holes.  A  pair  of  eagles  were  seen  in  mid-afternoon,  tilting  and 
sliding  on  the  wind  in  great  circles  till  lost  sight  of  in  a  cloud. 

The  situation  of  the  camp  is  of  uncommon  beauty.  The 
door  of  the  messtent  faces  the  range  of  mountains  that  bounds 
the  north  side  of  the  valley.  West  and  south  of  the  camp  is  a  field 
of  willow  brush,  brokenly  contouring  the  edge  of  the  deep 
channel  on  the  south  that  separates  it  from  the  big  hill  that  shelters 
it  in  that  quarter,  and  westward  opens  into  a  wide  stretch  of  still 
water  studded  with  islets  of  willow  near  the  sloping  banks  of  sage 
that  lie  point  beyond  point  to  the  northwest.  To  the  northwest 
the  view  over  the  water  is  bounded  by  the  goldenly  gray  bulk  of 
the  western  slope  of  the  northern  hills,  on  whose  sides  in  sheltered 
hollows  the  aspens  flame  in  golden  beauty.  The  western  horizon 
is  closed  in  by  the  tail  of  the  southern  sheltering  hill,  and  farther 
off,  across  the  blue  water,  a  part  of  the  Madison  range,  just  a 
short  length  visible  between  the  near  hills.  All  day  this  is  a  con- 
tinually shifting  and  changing  harmony  of  blue  and  colorful  gray, 
with  a  splendid  flash  of  copper  light  on  some  great  shoulder  of 
bare  rock  as  the  afternoon  sun  slants  redly  down.  At  evening  the 
tones  change  to  deepest  violet  as  the  light  leaves  the  sky,  until 


48 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


in  the  splendid  starlight,  one  can  just  make  out,  and  more  forcibly, 
feel,  the  solemn  bulk  of  the  mountains  against  the  heavens. 

Eastward,  the  river  loses  itself  around  a  curve  in  a  pleasant 
vista  of  willow  brush  and  reed  beds,  its  calm  surface  a  sapphire- 
like blue  in  contrast  to  the  rich  gold  of  the  hay  meadows  that  on 
its   southern   bank   rise  gradually  to  the  crown  of   Horse   Butte, 


=^«^fc^'^".  ^ 


St*r/ 


''^"•^^^M-^'i  ^^^  "Eastward,  the  river  loses  itself" 


;*=UJL^^ 


whose  eastern  end,  fir  forested,  is  just  visible  past  the  side  of  the 
sheltering  hill  across  the  water.  There  is  a  hint  of  blue-green  sage 
in  the  mid-distance,  above  which  rises,  across  almost  the  entire 
eastern  horizon  a  belt  of  firs,  whose  darkness  renders  more  dis- 
tantly blue  than  ever  the  low  band  of  hills  that  marks  the  eastern 
horizon,  in  whose  center  drops  the  Madison  canyon,  a  great 
square-sided  gap  through  whose  far  depths  there  sometimes  shows 
an  infinitely  far-off  mass  of  cloud,  minute  by  distance,  glowing 
in  the  light  that  pours  through  the  gap  at  evening  with  a  precious- 
ness  of  color  that  stirs  a  painter's  heart  to  a  fresh  thankfulness  for 
sight. 

A  little  after  noon  Wroe  and  Pratt  returned  with  eight  duck, 
(one  a  mallard  drake  in  large  flesh  and  splendid  feather),  three 
jacksnipe,  and  a  three  and  one-half  pound  cut- throat  trout,  a 
magnificent  fish,  taken  on  a  spoon.  The  beauty  was  hooked  in 
both  upper  and  lower  jaws.  He  was  played  by  Arthur  for  seven 
or  eight  minutes  before  he  had  his  first  sight  of  him.     In  the  next 


The  Second  Camp  49 


ten  minutes  three  attempts  were  made  to  get  the  net  under  him, 
the  speckled  warrior  fighting  fiercely,  and  still  continuing  the 
battle  in  the  boat. 

In  the  late  afternoon  Jay  returned  with  a  wagonload  of  fir 
logs  for  firewood.  With  axe  and  saw,  in  a  few  minutes  a  backlog 
and  the  lesser  members  of  a  properly  constituted  campfire  were 
ready.  With  deft  hand  a  piece  of  dry,  straight-grained  pine  was 
shaved  along  one  side  into  affringile  filaments.  This,  and  a  couple 
more  like  it,  placed  slantingly  against  the  backlog,  itself  with  its  side 
against  the  wind,  had  piled  slantingly  open  over  them,  in  a  roughly 
conical  form,  a  few  heavier  dry  sticks,  on  top  of  which  came  two 
or  three  light  logs,  their  weight  supported  by  the  backlog.  A 
match  was  struck,  and  in  the  sheltering  palm  applied  to  the  loose 
filaments  of  the  first  prepared  pieces.  In  two  minutes  a  lusty 
flame  was  leaping,  and  with  it  the  nomad's  sky-roofed  home 
fairly  established.  A  chill  wind  from  the  west,  and  a  snow  storm 
visible  on  Mount  Holmes  northeast  of  camp  made  the  comfort- 
diffusing  blaze  the  more  welcome. 

The  hunters,  out  until  after  sundown,  returned  with  a  lean 
bag.  Ducks  were  passing  up  and  down  continually,  but  the  light 
was  bad,  and  a  duck  flying  low  at  sundown  against  a  background 
of  gray  hill  does  not  offer  a  very  positive  mark  to  sight  on. 

A  clear  sky  at  evening,  and  a  bite  to  the  wind,  promising  a 
frosty  night  and  fair  weather  on  the  morrow.  The  light  of  the 
messtent,  with  the  still-continuing  contest  of  Art  against  Bill's 
unspeakable  luck  still  going  on,  and  the  warmth  of  the  fire  feel 
none  the  less  comfortable  for  the  yelling  of  some  unknown  number , 
of  coyotes  within  a  short  distance  of  camp.  It  is  difficult  to  accu- 
rately estimate  their  number,  for  one  can  make  himself  sound  like 
fifty.  The  yelping  howl  of  the  coyote  is  probably  the  most  charac- 
teristic night  sound  of  the  Montana  plains. 


COMMENTS  AND  STORIES 


The  stars  are  the  glory  of  a  Montana  night.  At  no  time 
perhaps  are  the  heavens  so  terribly  splendid  as  in  the  still  hours 
between  the  after-midnight  and  the  false  dawn — the  primam 
luce  of  Caesar.  To  see  the  boreal  splendor  of  the  north,  the 
coldly  ha^y  fire  of  the  Milky  Way  over  head,  and  in  the  south 
Orion  striding  the  sky,  followed  by  his  dogs  in  processional  glory, 
the  dog  star  blazing  like  a  nocturnal  but  far-off  sun,  brings 
keenly  to  mind  the  dignity  of  George  Sterling's  mighty  verse: 

O  armies  of  eternal  night, 

How  flame  your  guidons  on  the  dark 
Silent  we  turn  from  Time  to  mark 

What  final  orders  sway  your  might. 

Cold  from  colossal  ramparts  gleam 

From  their  insuperable  posts 

The  seven  princes  of  the  hosts 
Who  guard  the  holy  north  supreme. 

What  music  from  Capella  runs 

How  hold  the  Pleiades  their  bond 

How  storms  the  hidden  war  beyond 
Orion's  dreadful  sword  of  suns. 

•  •  •  • 

O  Night,  what  legions  serve  thy  wars 

Lol  thy  terrific  battle  line 

The  rayless  bulk,  the  blazing  Sign 
The  leagued  infinity  of  stars  1 

So  much,  at  least,  may  one  get  for  reward  of  getting  up  to 
tend  campfire  at  four  o'clock  of  a  frosty  morning,  even  though 
for  that  break  in  the  after-sleep,  the  spreading  fire  of  the  dawn 
be  foregone  for  later  slumber.  The  expectation  of  this  was  not 
realized,  for  the  camp  was  aroused  before  sunrise,  and  settled 
to  breakfast  just  as  the  sun  showed,  a  pale  gold  disk  through 
the  frosty  haze,  in  the  opening  of  the  Madison  gap. 

Before  the  sun,  the  mist  that  at  dawn  had  settled  on  the 
water  began  to  roll  and  lift.  Distant  islets  began  to  show,  and 
on  the  mirror-like  water,  whitely  still  under  the  hanging  vapor, 

50 


Comments  and  Stories  51 


odd  pairs  of  ducks  leisurely  paddled.  The  distant  shore  still 
invisible  the  gray-gold  slopes  of  the  hill  to  the  northwest  of  camp, 
rose  above  the  retreating  cloud.  Above  its  irregularly  rolling, 
slowly  changing  bulk  of  white  the  Madison  crests  showed  clear, 
coldly  blue  and  seeming  infinitely  far  removed.  A  ray  of  sun- 
light flew  clear,  above  the  morning  haze  on  the  eastern  sage 
benches,  and  fell  upon  the  mountain  tops.  Against  the  far  sky 
of  calm  blue-green  fire  behind  them,  each  peak,  each  projecting 
shoulder  and  crag  suddenly  flamed  in  crimson  fire,  whose  flare 
spread  and  broadened,  and  paled  under  the  advancing  sun,  till 
with  the  vanishing  of  the  matin  mists,  the  hills  were  full  clad 
in  their  luminously  blue  livery  of  the  full  day. 

At  breakfast  Art  was  directed  by  the  colonel  of  the  camp 
to  put  on  his  waders  and  do  some  real  work.  The  waders,  being 
new,  had  to  now  been  held  by  Art  for  the  purpose  of  admiration, 
as  well  by  a  wholesome  fear  of  a  rift  in  their  continuity  by  possibly 
getting  them  snagged.  Anyway  Arthur  put  them  on,  for  much 
the  same  reason  that  the  artist,  comfortably  rolled  in  his  blank- 
ets, on  being  asked  by  William  if  he  would  like  to  have  breakfast 
with  the  rest  of  the  camp,  promptly  declared  his  consuming 
pleasure  at  being  permitted  to  do  so. 

This  was  a  still  clear  day  with  no  wind  till  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon.  In  the  forenoon,  a  visitor  came  into  camp  on 
a  very  hairy  cayuse,  in  the  person  of  an  exceedingly  ragged  small 
boy,  with  his  second  crop  of  teeth  perceptibly  erupting  and  who 
betrayed  much  interest  in  the  doings  of  the  artist,  to  whom  he 
confided  the  fact  that  he  went  to  school,  was  in  the  fourth  book 
and  loved  to  figure.  After  watching  the  painter  in  silence  for 
some  time,  he  ventured  a  query  as  to  the  ultimate  disposal  of 
the  product  on  the  easel.  Being  informed  that  sometimes  they 
were  sold,  the  youngster  responded  in  all  honesty:  "I  didn't 
know  people  bought  those  things.  " 

The  motor  was  shipped  on  the  boat  this  afternoon,  and  a 
line  trailed  astern  with  a  spoon.  Two  fine  Salmo  Clarkii,  weigh- 
ing respectively  two  and  two  and  a  half  pounds  were  obtained  as  a 
result  and  furnished  supper.  A  cloudless  sky  all  day  and  a  very 
nearly  clear  sky  in  the  west  at  sunset,  no  wind,  and  frost  in  the  air. 

After  supper,  the  logs  on  the  campfire  were  flaming  with  bril- 
liant and  unusual  colors:  pale  violet  blue  and  bluish  green.     The 


52  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


hunters  played  some  more  rhum  to  their  entire  content,  the 
continual  interest  of  Fred  and  the  polite  tolerance  of  the  artist. 

The  artist  was  rebuked  by  the  camp  colonel  for  being  in- 
sufficiently provided  with  socks,  and  suffered  a  kindly  criticism 
of  the  weight  and  quality  of  the  blankets  he  had  provided  him- 
self with.  As  it  appeared  that  one  or  two  more  might  have  made 
good  their  deficiency  of  weight  and  substance,  he  was  assured 
by  Fred  that  "when  you  comes  into  this  country  the  thing  you 
need  most  darn  bad  is  a  good  pack — golly,  you  should  have  a 
big  pack — und  it  is  better  you  should  haf  one  blanket  too  many 
than  not  enough  by  one  ven  you  needs  him  most."  Also  after 
supper  the  artist  was  warned  by  the  same  friendly  mentor  that 
he  should  not  "sdick  your  feet  oudt  of  der  tent,  or,  py  golly, 
you  gets  them  cold  again  as  you  did  last  night."  From  this  Fred 
proceeded  to  a  mention  of  a  winter  camp  in  50°  minus,  as  an 
ordinary  experience  in  which  was  moisture  formed  frost  some 
three  inches  thick  on  the  under  side  of  the  tent  roof,  "und  if 
you  touch  him,  py  golly,  down  she  comes,  und  knocks  der  stuffing 
oudt  of  you." 

From  the  artist  this  brought  a  tale  of  a  western  friend  who 
somewhere  in  the  Canadian  Selkirks  received  a  military  dig- 
nitary from  home  who  was  a  big  game  hunter,  and  who  had 
unwisely  set  his  heart  on  a  grizzly  bear  hide  in  the  dead  of  winter. 
Regardless  of  all  representations  as  to  the  winter  habits  of  the 
animal  and  the  difficulties  and  hardships  of  the  trip,  he  insisted 
on  his  point,  and  accordingly  was  taken  by  the  guide  to  the  foot 
of  the  Asulkan  Glacier.  An  old  and  hardened  man  of  the  open, 
the  guide  camped  in  the  snow  by  the  fire,  in  a  sleeping  bag,  while 
the  major  retired  to  his  little  tent  with  a  coal-oil  stove  which  kept 
the  ease-loving  warrior  warm.  In  the  words  of  the  original 
narrator:  "It  was  cold.  It  froze  whisky  solid,  but  that  didn't 
feaze  me.  I'd  seen  it  once  or  twice  before.  But  one  night  after 
we  had  made  camp  and  turned  in,  me  to  the  bag  by  the  fire,  and 
the  major  to  his  tent  and  his  stove,  I  was  just  hugging  myself 
and  trying  to  believe  I  was  getting  warm  when  I  heard  footsteps 
on  the  snow  close  beside  me.  I  lifted  the  bag  flap  and  peeked  out. 
Here  was  the  major  making  preparations  to  camp  out  in  the 
snow  with  the  rest  of  us.  Says  I,  'Major,  wouldn't  you  be 
better  off  in  your  tent?'  and  he  answers,    *  I   reckon   I    would, 


Comments  and  Stories  53 


Redgrave,  I  reckon  I  would,  but  I  can't  go  to  sleep  with  a  light 
burning.  I  lit  a  candle  a  little  while  ago  to  read  by  a  while  before 
I  went  to  sleep,  and  now  I  can't  blow  the  dam  thing  out.  The 
flame's  froze.'" 

In  the  awed  silence  that  fell  upon  the  camp  William  took 
the  floor  with  a  recollection  of  another  military  big  gun  and  game 
hunter  who  was  entertained  as  a  special  guest  at  a  country  house 
in  the  Scots  Highlands.  Among  those  bidden  to  meet  this  colonel 
at  dinner,  was  a  near-by  laird,  a  dourly  doubtful  and  cannily 
speaking  old  gentleman.  At  dinner,  the  colonel,  being  asked  for 
a  recital  of  his  greatest  exploit,  enlarged  at  length,  with  much 
circumstantiality  of  detail,  upon  the  chase  and  final  slaughter 
of  a  man-eating  tiger  of  uncommon  ferocity  and  appetite  that 
for  long  had  been  the  scourge  of  a  dozen  native  villages  in  upper 
India.  With  breathless  interest  the  listeners  followed  the  colonel 
to  the  death,  and  with  awed  respect  received  the  incidental  detail 
of  the  tiger's  size,  twenty-six  feet  from  nose  to  tail  tip. 

The  laird  was  moved  thereby  to  a  recital  of  the  capture  of 
a  great  skate  that  for  years  had  been  known  to  be  upon  the  sea 
bottom  in  the  vicinity  of  his  home.  So  vast  was  the  fish  that  a 
careless  cartographer  making  a  survey  of  the  coast,  noting  its 
lightness  in  the  depths,  had  charted  it  as  a  sandbank,  and  a 
fishing  boat  or  so  seeking  anchorage,  their  anchors  having  caught 
in  its  mouth  and  tormenting  it,  had  been  badly  broken  up  by 
the  monster's  consequent  struggle  to  free  itself,  which  be  it  said, 
had  given  it  no  special  effort.  With  Scots  particularity,  the 
laird  went  into  the  details  of  the  construction  of  a  wrecking- 
scow,  the  provision  of  derricks  and  winches  of  a  dockyard  type, 
and  the  devising  and  forging  of  grabhooks  of  an  unique  pattern 
for  the  ultimate  capture  of  the  deep-sea  monster.  From  one 
incident  to  another,  each  more  grotesquely  improbably  probable, 
the  laird  proceeded  to  its  final  landing  and  its  size  and  weight, 
some  odd  forty  feet  broad  by  a  hundred  long,  and  seventy  tons 
or  so.  The  colonel  chose  to  take  the  recital  as  a  satirical  re- 
flection on  his  own  exploit  and  protested  strongly  to  his  host 
at  the  insult  that,  as  he  said,  had  been  offered  him  in  the  house 
where  he  was  a  guest.  He  demanded  immediate  amends  as  the 
alternative  to  his  departure.  His  host  went  to  the  laird,  and 
made  representation  of  the  state  of  the  case,  and  asked  that  he 


54  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


should  make  such  an  amende  as  would  satisfy  his  guest.  In  no 
wise  feeling  bound  to  put  himself  in  the  wrong  because  he  might 
or  might  not  have  doubted  the  colonel's  tale,  and  with  the  story 
teller's  pride  in  his  own  successful  creation,  the  old  laird  with  Scots 
stubbornness  rejoined,  "Aweel,  mon,  ye  can  tell  the  colonel  that 
if  he'll  take  a  bit  off  the  tail  of  the  teeger  we'll  see  what  can  be 
doon  aboot  the  skate." 

Amid  further  desultory  talk,  Fred,  again  moved  to  cold 
weather  reminiscences,  instanced  an  occasion  when  he  froze  his 
nose.  To  him  the  artist:  "That  was  surely  some  cold,  Fred, 
for  a  man's  nose,  you  know,  is  reckoned  a  warm  member."  "Yes, 
dot's  all  right,  but,  py  golly,  der  trouble  is  she  sdicks  oudt  so 
far."  A  wicked  and  Shandean  burst  of  laughter  greeted  this  as 
the  artist  murmured  sotto  voce,  "  I  wish  the  good  Tristram  could 
have  heard  that;  he  might  have  added  another  paragraph  to  the 
famous  chapter  on  noses." 

Here  the  camp  went  to  bed,  all  well,  but  that  the  artist  was 
still  irrepressibly  chuckling. 


TWO  CASUAL  DAYS 


Wednesday  the  twenty-third. 

This  day  was  fair  and  warm,  positively  hot  at  noonday,  after 
a  frosty  fog  in  the  early  morning. 

After  breakfast  the  two  sportsmen  went  to  rifle  practice  and 
adjustment  of  sights.  The  marksmen  were  amusedly  embar- 
rassed by  the  excited  interest  of  the  artist,  who  with  a  pair  of  field 
glasses,  in  their  rear,  tried  to  keep  tab  on  shots  and  call  points, 
such  as  were  made,  for  them.  A  heat  haze  rising  from  the  prairie 
made  the  target,  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a  three-inch  bull's-eye  and 
a  ten-inch  outer  circle,  at  two  hundred  yards,  waver  visibly,  making 
accurate  sighting  a  difficult  proposition. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  artist,  with  Fred,  walked  to  Grayling 
postoffice,  a  mile  or  so  northeast  over  the  prairie,  and  at  the 
entrance  of  Red  canyon,  for  so  is  the  great  opening  in  the  northern 
hills  named,  up  which,  in  a  few  days  more,  it  is  announced,  the 
party  will  journey  over  the  trail  to  Tepee  basin,  fifteen  hundred 
feet  higher  up. 

Grayling  postoffice,  so  named  from  the  fish  found  plentifully 
in  the  nearby  river,  is  a  small 
log  building  with  a  tarred  felt 
roof,  standing  in  the  dooryard  of 
Peter  Kerzenmacher.  The 
postmaster,  Peter,  is  of  German 
birth,  twenty-four  years  in  this 
country  and  this  particular 
section,  a  heavy  set  but  active 
man.  He  is  dark  and  slow 
spoken,  with  an  illuminating 
smile  and  a  handgrip  that  in- 
spires utter  confidence  in  him 
as  a  solid  rock  of  friendly  de- 
pendability. 

The  first  representative  of 
the  Kerzenmacher  establish- 
ment,    official    and    otherwise,  "Peter" 


/ 


Page  55 


56  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


encountered,  however,  was  Mistress  Kerzenmacher  herself,  when 
Fred,  with  the  matter-of-course  at-home-ness  of  this  section  of 
the  West,  placed  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  house  door,  and 
without  knocking,  walked  into  the  lady's  kitchen,  followed  by  the 
artist,  immediately  thereafter  presented  to  its  mistress.  Mrs. 
Kerzenmacher,  a  comely  woman  well  above  the  average  stature, 
with  a  fresh  clear  skin,  of  an  attractive  neatness  of  person  and 
appointments,  received  her  visitors  with  a  fineness  of  manner 
that  left  no  sort  of  doubt  of  their  welcome.  The  lady's  steady, 
<lirect  gaze,  a  poise  of  manner  that  showed  a  very  complete 
mastery  of  all  possible  exigencies  of  the  life  of  a  rancher's  wife, 
a  clear  voice  of  an  agreeable  pitch,  together  with  a  certain  dignity 
of  bearing,  coupled  with  a  genial  and  sincere  courtesy  to  her  guests, 
well  prepared  one  for  the  further  discovery  that  she  was  of  High- 
land Scots  descent,  but  one  generation  removed  from  Gaelic- 
speaking  forbears  who  had  settled  in  Southern  Pennsylvania. 

The  windows  of  a  bright,  fresh  kitchen  were  filled  with  prize 
geraniums,  products  of  Mrs.  Kerzenmacher's  skill  and  care. 
Grown  in  tomato  cans,  with  sturdy,  full  leafed  stems,  each  plant 
bore  a  massive  head  of  bloom,  some  two  or  three,  with  each  single 
floret  developed  to  the  full.  Ranging  in  color  from  the  palest 
rose  to  the  deepest  crimson,  they  were  worthy  to  rank  with  the 
finest  of  prize  flowers  that  the  writer  could  recollect  ever  having 
seen  at  sundry  flower  shows  in  past  years.  Raised  in  the  first 
instance  from  seed,  and  thereafter  by  slips,  from  the  strongest 
plants,  with  a  professional  gardener's  skill  shown  in  crossing  the 
different  strains,  nursed  through  the  unspeakable  chills  of  Montana 
winters,  a  continual  feast  of  perfume  and  pleasure  the  year  round, 
they  were  an  eloquent  testimony  to  an  innate  love  of  beauty. 

Her  two  boys,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  with  deep  chests  and 
broad  shoulders,  had  a  strong  fineness  of  the  open  air  and  moun- 
tains about  them  that  made  the  city  children  imaged  freshly  in 
the  artist's  recollection,  appear  coarse  beside  them,  or  where  not 
that,  unhealthy  and  under-developed. 

Other  company  present  in  the  Kerzenmacher  kitchen  were 
Miss  Sontag  the  local  school  ma'am,  Mrs.  Fred  Lamoureaux 
with  her  baby,  and  Jack  Dolan,  the  mail  carrier  between  Grayling 
and  Lake,  Idaho,  thirty-five  miles  away,  making  the  trip  three 
times  a  week. 


Two  Casual  Days  57 


From  the  Kerzenmacher  dooryard,  the  sight  of  the  Madison 
range,  completely  closing  in  the  western  horizon  from  north  to 
south,  is  a  sight  of  dignified  splendor.  Seen  across  a  widespread 
foreground  of  rolling  prairie,  golden  tawny  in  the  afternoon  sun, 
they  present  a  long  drawn  rampart  against  the  heaven  of  the 
loveliest  and  most  variedly  luminous  blues  that  the  painter  may 
ever  note,  within  which  a  deeper  note  shows  either  some  forward- 
advancing  lesser  height,  on  whose  slopes  the  slanting  sun  may 
strike  a  note  of  deep  greenish  gold  on  the  crowns  of  the  blue  pines, 
or  some  tremendous  ravine  whose  depth  is  to  be  reckoned  perhaps 
in  miles,  yet  at  this  distance  betrayed  by  but  a  slight  and  airy 
deepening  of  the  blue  harmony.  At  sundown  the  blues  change 
to  a  deep  chord  of  violet  that  one  can  almost  hear — that  does  in 
truth,  choir  and  chant  in  deep-toned  harmony  with  the  glowing 
sky  above.  It  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  a  painter,  speaking 
of  a  successfully  achieved  color  harmony,  to  say  that  it  sings. 
Here,  if  anywhere,  is  the  sound  suggestiveness  of  color  made  man- 
ifest, by  the  hand  of  Nature  herself. 

Among  the  relics  of  early  days  in  Gallatin  County  noted  at 
Peters',  was  a  pair  of  buffalo  horns  mounted  on  the  frontal  plate 
of  the  original  skull,  twelve  inches  between  the  base  of  the 
horns,  twenty-one  and  one-half  inches  wide  between  the  incurv- 
ing tips,  and  each  horn  twelve  inches  in  circumference  at  the 
base.     Peter    kindly    offered    to    give    the    artist    the    horns. 

Grayling  post- 
office  serves  a  com- 
munity of  a  dozen 
scattered  ranches  ly- 
ing in  the  Madison 
basin,  each  a  mile  or 
so  from  its  neighbor, 
and  the  farthest 
perhaps  half  a  dozen  miles  away  from  the  postoffice.  It  takes 
care  also  of  mail  of  all  kinds  coming  for  prospectors,  surveyors, 
hunters,  guides,  construction  engineers  and  camps,  and  such  like 
miscellaneous  temporary  sojourners  and  passersby  within  its  field 
of  service.  The  mail  service,  regular  enough  in  the  summer  and 
fall — there  is  no  spring — summer  comes  with  a  rush  and  a  bang 
— is  sometimes  interrupted  for  weeks  at  a  time  in  the  winter  by 


58  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


stress  of  weather.  The  mail  reaches  Grayling  from  Monida, 
Montana,  ninety  miles  distant  by  stage  and  special  mail  drivers 
three  times  a  week  (in  good  weather).  Monida  being  the  nearest 
railroad  postoffice  to  which  there  is  train  service  twelve  months 
in  the  year.  A  temperature  of  fifty  degrees  below  zero  is  not 
uncommon,  and  though  in  still,  dry  air,  more  common  in  the 
winter  than  not,  this  is  bearable,  yet  the  raging  fierceness  of  a 
storm  driven  by  the  thousand-edged  wind  that  comes  off  the 
heights  about  the  valley  is  something  the  flat-dweller,  wrapped 
about   in    artificial   warmth,    can   only   dimly   surmise. 

Walking  back  to  camp,  the  artist  made  note  of  the  changing 
beauty  of  color  shown  by  the  sagebrush.  In  a  steady  light  locally 
of  a  pale  greenish  gray,  in  wide  areas  it  responds  to  the  sky  above, 
and  the  changing  angle  of  the  sunlight  almost  as  water  does. 
In  late  afternoon  with  the  sun  an  hour  from  the  Occident,  the  upper 
tufts,  heaving  with  the  contour  of  the  ground  beneath  in  wave-like 
rolls,  take  numberless  tones  of  golden  light,  from  the  palest  lemon 
to  the  ruddiest  orange,  bathing  the  middle  distance  of  the  prairie 
in  a  floating  haze  of  light,  broken  as  it  comes  near  the  eye  by  the 
violet  bloom  of  the  shadowed  side  of  the  clumps.  A  little  nearer 
yet,  and  the  separate  clumps  show  a  golden  crest  upon  a  lovely 
violet  tone  of  under  foliage,  below  which  again  the  contorted  stems, 
in  their  twistings  flowing  with  a  marked  and  typical  rhythm,  tell 
in  still  deeper  violet  grays  against  the  brightly  tawny  dried  grass 
between.  Not  uncommonly  when  a  lemon  light  falls  from  the 
sky,  foliage  tufts  and  stems  in  shadow  will  show  in  light  and  dark 
tones  of  red-violet  gray.  Far  off,  in  the  extreme  distance,  it  lies 
under  the  sky  in  pale  fields  and  strips  of  grayish  green,  sometimes 
inclining  distinctly  to  pale  blue.  The  upstanding  dried  flower 
stems,  visible  only  near  at  hand,  take  always  the  color  of  the 
dominant  light. 

Arrived  back  at  camp  it  was  found  that  the  sportsmen 
were  out  with  rod  and  line  just  before  sundown,  but  without 
results.  There  was  teal  for  dinner,  the  table  graced  with  gerani- 
ums sent  to  the  camp  by  Mrs.  Kerzenmacher,  with  her  com- 
pliments. Afterward  came  letters,  and  then  the  sempiternal 
game  of  rhum,  at  which  Art  effected  several  ponderous  coups, 
and  so  to  bed,  with  coyotes  yelling  on  all  thirty-six  points  of 
the  compass. 


Two  Casual  Days  59 


Thunday  the  twenty -fourth. 

The  strengthening  sun  had  barely  dissipated  the  fog  and  frost 
of  early  morning  before  the  camp  was  honored  with  a  visit  from 
the  local  game  warden.  The  gentleman,  genial  enough  of  per- 
sonal disposition,  yet  seemed  to  take  it  as  an  affront  to  his  official 
dignity  that  the  cook  and  horse  wrangler  with  the  party  were  not 
residents  of  the  state  of  Montana,  and  was  pragmatically  insistent 
on  a  certain  clause  of  the  state  game  laws  providing  that  any 
person  employed  by  a  hunting  party  as  cook  or  packer  shall  be 
esteemed  a  guide  within  the  meaning  of  the  act,  and  therefore 
liable  to  a  license  fee  of  ten  dollars  in  addition  to  being  as  required 
by  the  sections  covering  the  licensing  of  guides,  "competent  and 
of  good  moral  character."  The  act  appears  incomplete  in  this 
section,  inasmuch  as  it  does  not  specify  in  what  the  item  of  com- 
petence shall  consist.  William  dug  up  a  copy  of  the  statutes  and 
showed  the  warden  that  the  act  also  clearly  provided  that  but  one 
guide  to  each  party  was  required  to  be  a  resident  of  Montana, 
and  the  warden  reluctantly  admitted  that  perhaps  that  was  true, 
though  obviously  far  from  satisfied. 

The  morning  was  given  up  to  correspondence,  and  a  hot 
afternoon  following  to  some  companionable  loafing,  and  tinkering 
up  the  stern  of  the  boat  to  provide  a  firmer  seating  for  the  motor. 
Trout  were  rising  freely  between  four  and  six  o'clock  to  small 
midges,  of  which  clouds  were  in  the  air  over  the  water.  Fewer 
ducks  were  observed  to-day  than  at  any  time  previously.  They 
have  apparently  become  aware  of  the  camp  and  are  taking  another 
route  in  preference  to  following  their  accustomed  course  from  the 
lake  along  the  river. 

The  persistence  of  the  two  men  other  than  the  inditer  hereof 
in  devotion  to  their  card  game  has  caused  the  artist  to  remark 
that  his  principal  recollection  of  this  trip  will  be  of  one  sempi- 
ternal shuffle,  deal  and  discard  against  a  background  of  sagebrush, 
mountains,  and  evening  glows,  pointed  by  alarums  and  excursions 
after  duck  and  trout,  and  coyotes,  of  which  at  this  present  writing 
there  are  apparently  fifty  or  so  yelping  their  souls  out  to  the  stars 
within  three  hundred  yards  of  camp.  Jay,  absent  for  a  couple  of 
days,  came  back  from  Henry  Lake  to-night.  A  clear  and  frosty 
night,  and  so  ends  this  day  all  well. 


THE  ARTIST  GOES  A-FISHING 


Friday  the  twenty-fifth. 

The  morning  opened  clear  with  Uttle  frost,  the  matin  mist 
rising  from  the  prairie  as  the  sun  reached  the  horizon,  and  permit- 
ting a  clear  view  of  its  disk,  lemon  gold  through  the  haze. 

Fred  and  Jay  departed  immediately  after  breakfast  to  Yellow- 
stone, Fred  to  be  gone  for  two  days.  William  and  Art  took  their 
way  up  the  river  for  fish,  and  any  duck  that  might  come  their 
way.  The  camp  deserted  before  eight  o'clock,  the  artist  spent  a 
long  morning  alone,  elaborating  an  evening  sketch  till  the  return 
of  the  fishers  some  time  after  one,  with  five  fine  trout  and  a  gray- 
ling. The  heaviest  of  the  trout  in  the  morning's  catch  weighed 
three  and  three-quarters  pounds.  The  average  throughout  was 
a  trifle  over  three  pounds.  The  catch  was  made  on  a  No.  10 
Reuben  Wood  fly,  and  a  No.  8  Jock  Scott.  Wild  geese  were 
reported  by  the  fishers  as  having  passed  close  overhead  while 
they  were  close  under  a  bank  where  the  geese  did  not  see  them. 

In  the  afternoon  the  colonel  of  the  camp  took  out  the  artist^ 
who,  besides  being  hard  of  hearing  is  chronically  and  absent- 
mindedly  engrossed  in  the  admiration  of  the  beauties  about  him. 
Consequently  the  colonel  as  skipper  of  the  transrivum  expedition 
had  his  troubles  with  the  crew,  to  say  nothing  of  a  leaky  boat  and 
frequent  shallows,  which,  the  crew  failing  to  announce  them,  at  such 
times  being  most  deeply  absorbed  in  the  unfolding  vistas  of  the 
loveliest  little  river  in  the  country,  necessitated  the  skipper's 
quite  frequently  stepping  overboard  and  towing  the  boat,  foremast 
hand  and  all. 

At  the  fishing  grounds,  with  kindly  authority,  the  artist  was 
initiated  by  William  into  the  mysteries  of  bending  on  a  leader  and 
its  complement  of  flies,  and  proceeded  in  as  amateurish  a  fashion 
as  could  well  be  conceived,  to  do  his  best  to  master  the  art  of 
casting  a  fly  with  a  trifle  less  noise  than  if  he  were  pitching  a  ten- 
penny  nail  into  the  water.  William's  patience  was  infinite  and 
his  large-souled  unselfishness  in  posting  his  scholar  on  the  most 
promising  water  is  a  sportsmanlike  example  to  all  true  anglers. 
Within  ten  minutes  the  artist  laid  aside  his  rod  the  better  to 

Page  60 


The  Artist  Goes  A -Fishing 


6f 


observe  the  easy  grace  of  William's  handling  of  a  big  trout  that 
had  taken  a  Queen  of  the  Waters  with  a  rush  and  a  plunge.  This 
one,  neatly  "grassed"  on  a  shelving  bank  without  troubling  the 
landing  net,  served  as  a  further  means  of  demonstration  to  the 
scholar  of  the  correct  mode  of  grasping,  unhooking,  stunning,  and 
stringing  a  fish  on  a  cut  willow  twig.  Back  to  his  casting  went 
the  artist  mentally  repeating  the  running  admonitions  of  hia 
master  in  the  gentle  art.  Turning  his  head  a  few  minutes  later,  he 
beheld  with  fresh  delight  the  graceful  arch  of  the  senior's  rod  as  he 
came  down  the  water  from  round  the  bend  with  yet  another  great 
fellow  on  his  line,  fairly  hooked.  To  the  scholar  the  rod  was 
handed,  the  splendid  speckled  warrior  on  the  line  having  already 
been  played  for  ten 
minutes,  and  here,  the 
master's  rod  and  own 
fish  in  his  hands,  was 
the  scholar,  under 
direction,  allowed  the 
privilege  of  finally 
playing  and  landing 
the  greatest  fish  of 
the  afternoon,  a  four- 
pound  Salmo  Clarkii. 
Upstream  then  a  hun- 
dred yards,  where,  at 
the  mouth  of  a  little 
creek,  the  water  pul- 
sating with  a  mother- 
of-pearl  iridescence  in 
the  evening  light,  the 
great  fish  rose  and  leaped  every  passing 
minute.  Here,  the  while  the  scholar 
practiced  his  casting,  were  two  more 
great  beauties,  taken  on  a  Royal  Coach- 
man, added  by  William  to  the  score. 
Now  it  was  sundown  and  the  dark  at  hand. 
Downstream  ahead  of  William  to  the  boat  anc 
the  water  originally  fished,  a  few  more  casts 
were  made  by  the  scholar.     Then  triumphantly 


62 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


c 


A  heavy  fish 

downstream  came  William,  holding  up  two 
fingers  with  his  disengaged  hand.  Two  at 
once,  a  grayling  and  a  small  trout.  These 
were  grassed  and  strung,  the  while  a  cock 
willow  grouse  ruffled  his  feathers  not  twenty 


The  Artist  Goes  A -Fishing  63 


feet  away.  Darkness  was  now  at  hand  and.  a  young  moon 
in  the  sky.  WilHam  showed  a  Mississippi  pilot's  memory  for 
marks,  deeps,  and  shoals,  and  performed  such  an  excellent 
job  of  navigation  in  the  dark  as  caused  Arthur  to  remark  on 
landing,  that  he  stood  in  danger  of  arrest  for  piloting  without 
a  license.  The  entire  day's  catch,  ten  trout  and  two  gray- 
ling, averaged  two  and  one-quarter  pounds,  the  heaviest,  as 
recorded,  four  pounds. 

And  here  the  writer  hereof  sets  it  down,  that  if  there  is  any 
thrill  greater  than  that  of  seeing  a  master  of  the  gentle  craft  handle 
and  land  a  heavy  fish,  save  perhaps  that  from  doing  the  trick 
oneself,  he  has  yet  to  experience  it.  William's  cast  is  an  expression 
of  efficiency  in  the  nth  power.  His  rod  goes  back  with  an  easy 
sweep  of  the  wrist,  with  no  waste  motion,  the  line  unrolls 
through  the  air  and  drops  the  fly  at  the  destined  spot  easily 
as  a  thistledown.  By  the  results  achieved,  William's  aphor- 
ism, "Get  your  cast  to  working  right  and  you'll  catch  fish," 
is  fully  justified. 

Trout  for  supper.  An  overcast  sky,  a  cheerful  campfire,  two 
fisherman  chaps  in  their  to-be-continued-everlastingly  card  game, 
the  artist  after  a  royal  day  sleepy  as  a  tired  pup,  and  with  the 
despatch  of  all  fish  more  than  the  camp  needed  to  Kerzenmacher, 
the  local  postmaster,  and  a  nearby  ranch,  so  ends  this  day 
all  well. 

Saturday  the  twenty-sixth. 

The  day  was  heavily  overcast,  with  occasional  breaks  of  sun 
and  a  strong  wind — a  good  time  for  sticking  around  camp  and  get- 
ting away  with  the  dozen  or  so  trifling  jobs  that  have  been  shifted 
forward  from  day  to  day  for  an  opportunity  that  would  not  trench 
on  possible  sport.  At  any  rate,  so  the  morning  passed.  And 
then  it  was  decided  that  the  artist  should  again  go  a-fishing,  since 
he  seemed  inclined  to  stick  so  close  to  his  easel  as  to  run  a  serious 
chance  of  not  getting  any  sport  at  all  unless  somebody  woke  him 
up,  and  showed  it  to  him. 

"Jimmy  and  I  will  take  the  boat,"  announced  the  colonel, 
"and  you'll  walk.  Art." 

"What  do  I  want  to  walk  for?     I'd  just  as  soon  ride." 

"Not  this  time.     You'll  have  to  walk  a  dozen  miles  or  so  a 


64 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


day,  after  elk  next  week,  so  you  might  as  well  get  into  training 
now." 

Arthur  is  obedient,  be  it  observed,  but  to  the  discerning  eye 
may  be  seen  to  have  his  own  thoughts  on  the  matter.  There  are 
few  who  make  such  a  cheerful  virtue  of  necessity. 

The  passage  to  the  trouting  grounds,  the  same  stretch  of 
water  as  was  visited  on  the  day  before,  was  made  almost  fault- 
lessly, with  but  a  single  shoaling,  and  the  cook  and  captain  bold 
overboard  to  tow  the  gallant  and  sievelike  craft  off  a  bar  only  once. 
On  the  way  up,  a  colony  of  barn-swallows'  nests  were  noted 
beneath  the  edge  of  a  cut  bank  overhanging  the  water.  Bee-hive 
shaped,  of  clay,  each  with  its  little  round  doorway  at  the  apex, 
they  stuck  out  horizontally  from  the  face  of  the  bank.  A  grebe 
or  two  made  his  jerky  twisting  plunge,  and  odd  pairs  of  duck 

squawked  away  before  our  passage. 
A  heron  lazily  rose  and  trailed  off 
over  the  willow  tops  to  a  new 
solitude.  The  very  spirit  of  after- 
noon peace  was  in  the  land. 

Quite  a  breeze,  fitfully  dying 
down  at  intervals,  ruffled  the  water 
on  reaching  the  fishing  ground. 
Rods  set  up  and  leaders  bent  on,  the 
triad  went  to  work.  Art  working 
down,  and  Bill  and  his  scholar  up- 
stream, with  a  passing  salutation 
to  a  solitary  and  hopeless  rancher 
on  the  opposite  bank,  who  was 
pessimistically  experimenting  with 
grasshoppers.  There  was  nothing 
doing  either  side  of  the  stream  for 
some  minutes.  Then  the  artist  and 
William  simultaneously  hooked  a  two-pound  whitefish  apiece. 
In  the  course  of  the  fishing  period  William  hooked  and  landed 
one  more,  rather  to  his  own  and  the  artist's  boredom,  for  the 
whitefish  is  not  a  pretty  fish,  with  coarse  scaling,  an  evil  neutral 
gray-green  color,  and  a  sucker  mouth. 

The  fishers  waded  and  worked  under  the  edge  of  thick  willow 
brush,  its  topmost  branches  a  dozen  feet  high.     This  called  for 


The  Jlrtist  Goes  A-Fhhing 


65 


some  care  in  making  the  back  cast  to  avoid  fouling  the  line. 
Beyond  the  edge  of  the  shadow  thrown  by  this,  the  water,  still 
between  passing  wind  riffles,  showed  a  placid  beauty  of  reflected 
color  from  the  heavens  overhead,  for  it  was  close  on  sundown — a 
quietly  heaving  sheet  of  rose  pearl,  pale  green  and  blue  fire,  broken 
with  yet  deeper  blue  where  a  catspaw  struck  it.  At  its  farther 
edge,  the  golden  light  of  the  sun-lit  reed  beds  struck  vertically 
down  into  the  sky  reflections,  making  the  water  appear  more 
brilliant  still  by  complementary  opposition. 


JMk 


''Mount  Holmes 

dominated  the 

evening  stillness'' 


Above  reed  beds  and  hay  meadows,  together  a  far-stretching 
sheet  of  quivering  tawny  gold,  far  away  the  sage  hills  began  to 
rise,  lying  east  and  west  in  sliding  inclines  that  took  the  eye, 
halting  here  and  there  on  the  dark  accent  of  some  group  or  band 
of  distant  pines,  to  the  crown  of  the  blue  foothills.  And  from  the 
broken  gold  of  the  near  ground,  the  gray  gold  of  the  sage  hills, 
the  foundational  blue  of  the  foothills,  in  the  red,  red  flame  of  the 
large  last  gleam,  majestic  against  the  low  lying  pale  violet  clouds 
of  the  northern  horizon,  through  whose  rifts  an  elusively  pale 
green  sky  showed  in  lesser  light.  Mount  Holmes  dominated  the 
evening  stillness. 

One  good  trout  was  hooked  and  landed  by  William  just 
after  sundown,  a  three  pound  cut-throat.  This,  with  the  other  less 
desirable  fish  were  passed  across  stream  to  the  unlucky  rancher, 
who  thankfully  bore  them  home.     A  heavy  thunderstorm  was 


66  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


raging  on  the  mountain  ranges  on  the  way  home,  and  at  supper 
a  stiff  wind  and  some  rain  struck  the  camp.  At  the  end  of  the 
evening  the  wind  had  dropped  and  the  stars  were  out  with  a 
few  drifting  clouds  and  a  fair  promise  of  a  good  day  on  the 
morrow. 


A  CAMP  SUNDAY 


Sunday  the  twenty -stt)entK 
Noting  the  cloudy,  stormy  sky,  a  feel  of  rain  in  the  air, 
and  a  struggling  sun  in  the  east,  the  artist,  before  the  messtent 
door,  quoted: 

"As  breaks  the  sun  through  overmastering  clouds 
So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye? 
Or  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful?" 

"Gee"  commented  Art,  rolling  his  ante-breakfast  cigarette 
near  by.  "You've  got  something  like  that  for  most  every  oc- 
casion, haven't  you?" 

"Merely  a  habit  of  memory"  he  was  assured.  "Had  it 
from  my  dad.  The  governor  was  an  inveterate  quoter,  and  I 
believe  made  a  perfect  nuisance  of  himself  sometimes." 

This  day  was  William's  birthday,  and  however  the  knowledge 
of  it  got  abroad  in  the  valley,  shortly  after  breakfast  arrived 
the  local  schoolmistress,  fair,  curly-haired,  spectacled  as  befitted 
her  official  dignity,  young  and  altogether  good  to  look  upon, 
in  a  divided  skirt  astride  of  a  dark  roan.  A  scholar  on  a  light 
bay  pony  was  her  attendant  squire,  bearing  a  three-layer  birth- 
day cake,  a  friendly  tribute  to  William's  excellence  of  social 
quality  from  the  Mistress  Kerzenmacher,  before-mentioned  in 
the  record.  A  cake  "as  was  a  cake,"  it  signalized  the  natal  day 
of  the  camp  colonel  and  graced  the  board  at  dinner  this  evening. 
In  addition  to  the  gastronomic  tribute  to  the  colonel's  popu- 
larity, the  giftbearer  brought  sundry  letters  from  home,  the 
major  part  for  the  honor  of  William's  natality.  These,  added 
to  sundry  packages  and  letters  entrusted  to  the  artist  for  de- 
livery on  this  day,  and  arranged  at  William's  place  at  breakfast, 
gave  affairs  in  the  messtent  a  busily  festive  appearance. 

The  artist  ventured  that  it  looked  like  a  good  day. 

"For  what?"  inquired  William. 

"Duck." 

Page  67 


68  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


"What  makes  you  think  it's  a  good  day  for  duck.  If  I  want 
to  get  the  truth  out  of  you,  I  have  to ." 

The  artist  broke  in.  "There  was  a  heavy  wind  last  night, 
and  a  storm.  That  would  have  driven  them  from  the  lake  into 
the  shelter  of  the  reed  beds  and  willow  channels.  It  won't  clear 
till  afternoon,  if  at  all,  and  then  you'll  have  a  chance  for  the 
trout  again." 

Sceptical  or  not,  William  and  Arthur  took  the  artist  at  his 
word  and  departed,  returning  at  noon  with  some  fine  mallards, 
one  bird  rather  heavier  and  fuller  fleshed  than  the  rest. 

After  lunch  came  out  leader  boxes,  fly  books,  envelopes  of 
feathers  of  many  kinds  and  tints,  papers  of  hooks,  odd  twists  of 
silk  floss  of  gay  color,  twists  of  tinsel,  gold  and  silver  thread, 
and  all  the  small  impedimenta  dear  to  the  fly  fisher's  heart. 
With  leaders  and  snells  soaking  in  a  bowl  of  warm  water  beside 
him,  to  work  William  went  in  craftsmanlike  fashion,  in  the  con- 
triving of  flies  of  new  and  strange  alluringness  to  match  one 
taken  by  the  artist  from  the  water  the  preceding  evening,  to 
which  the  trout  were  then  rising  freely.  A  blunt  nosed  pair  of 
small  scissors  hanging  on  his  dexter  little  finger,  for  convenience 
in  dividing  strands  of  gut  and  silk,  and  trimming  feathers, 
William  discoursed  of  the  mysteries  of  fly  building,  the  while  he 
whipped  a  bunch  of  feathers  to  the  shank  of  a  hook.  The  whip- 
ping concluded,  came  the  moment  of  final  trimming.  With 
confident  hand  the  craftsman  groped  upon  the  table,  as  he  eyed 
the  all  but  completed  creation  upon  the  snell.  "As  I  was  say- 
ing— Now,  where  are  those  scissors?"  And  further  he  rummaged, 
while  Art  and  the  artist  exchanged  glances.  With  methodical 
care  the  searcher  explored  the  table.  "Now,  I  know  I  had  those 
scissors  a  minute  ago."  The  table  searched,  in  growing  resent- 
ment at  the  innate  depravity  of  inanimate  things,  the  search  was 
transferred  to  the  trunk  from  which  the  box  of  fly-making  material 
had  come  forth.  Vocal  protest,  half  breathed,  began  to  make 
the  air  blue,  and  the  sulphurous  fire  began  to  sizzle  along  the 
edges  of  the  woodwork  within  a  sotto  voce  vocal  range.  A 
half-suppressed  snicker  caught  the  searcher's  ear.  He  gazed, 
his  eye  traveled  to  his  own  minor  digit,  where  the  missing  im- 
plement obediently  hung. 

"Allright,     they're    on    me,"    and    with    this    neat    double 


A  Camp  Sunday  69 


entendre  was  discomfiture  transformed  into  the  triumph  of  a 
well  turned  phrase. 

"It  wasn't  so  bad,  Bill"  comforted  the  artist.  "You  might 
have  done  worse.  You  might  have  mislaid  yourself,  as  an  ac- 
quaintance of  mine  did  once."  And  here  he  proceeded  to  a 
recital  of  the  phenomenal  absent-mindedness  of  one  Squiggs,  one 
of  those  quaintly  learned,  semi-professional  specialists  on  ob- 
scure things,  who  occasionally  appear  at  high  fees  in  the  law 
courts.  A  precise,  methodical  man,  as  befitted  his  occupation, 
he  was  accustomed  to  leave  his  office  for  lunch,  at  the  same  time 
every  day  to  a  dot.  Having  no  office  boy  or  stenographer,  he 
was  used  to  hang  upon  his  office  door  a  neatly  written  card 
announcing  his  return  at  one-thirty.  As  regularly  as  he  went, 
he  returned,  to  the  second.  One  day,  some  unobserved  con- 
catenation of  circumstances  brought  him  back  to  his  office  a  full 
ten  minutes  before  his  appointed  time.  At  his  office  door  his 
eye  fell  upon  the  notice.  Subconsciously  aware  that  it  was 
not  yet  the  appointed  time  for  his  own  return,  he  took  out  his 
watch,  and  noted  the  time.  Equally  aware  that  the  man  whose 
name  was  on  the  card  would  return  at  the  announced  time,  he 
methodically  paced  to  the  head  of  the  nearby  stair,  and  sat  down 
to  wait  for  himself. 

Here  is  added  another  paragraph  to  the  long  roll  of  trouty 
capriciousness.  This  evening  the  pink-bellied  jokers  would  not 
even  look  at  the  flies  tied  with  care  and  pains,  though  the 
whitefish  took  them  eagerly  enough,  little  to  the  liking  of 
the  fishers,  who  consequently  returned  empty  handed,  never- 
theless content  with  the  beauty  of  the  afternoon  and  evening 
in  the  open. 

At  evening,  in  the  east,  against  a  middle  sky  of  luminous 
pearly  green,  was  a  lower  sky  of  iridescent  rose  clouds  on  which 
were  drifts  of  pale  violet.  Upon  this  and  rising  over  its  upper 
border  into  the  clear  green  above,  were  two  or  three  long  extending 
level-bottomed  cumulus  clouds,  flaming  with  pale  rose  and  rose 
pearl.  In  the  west,  the  Madison  range  rose  dark  against  a  small 
area  of  brilliant  pale  lemon.  About  this,  and  extending  upward 
and  outward  from  it  hung  dark  masses  of  down-dropping  storm 
clouds,  whose  lower  fringes  flamed  in  burning  crimson  against  the 
threatening  gray,   over  a   leaden   lake,   down   whose   center   the 


70  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


reflection  of  the  first  light  lay  in  a  perpendicular  path  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  near  shore. 

At  sundown  Fred  returned  with  a  string  of  saddle  and  pack 
horses,  for  use  on  the  road  to  Tepee  Basin  on  Tuesday.  By  him, 
after  two  days'  absence,  the  camp  received  the  first  news  of  the 
progress  of  the  European  war  since  the  17th,  and  his  news  was 
derived  from  a  Salt  Lake  newspaper  of  the  24th  which  he  had  seen 
while  away  from  camp,  this  being  the  27th. 

There  were  clouds  and  a  slight  sprinkle  of  rain  during  the 
evening,  clearing  at  nine  o'clock  with  a  half  moon  and  stars  in 
the  sky,  and  a  variable  wind  from  the  north. 


NEW  EXPERIENCES 


Monday  the  twenty-eighths 

"Dot  vas  your  horse,  Jim,"  spoke  Fred's  voice  to  the  artist, 
as,  over  the  post-breakfast  smoke,  the  camp  dwellers  gathered 
to  inspect  the  saddle  and  pack  animals  brought  in  the  evening 
before,  and  to  have  apportioned  their  respective  mounts. 

The  artist  gazed  upon  an  undersized,  mild-eyed,  black  Indian 
pony,  that  grazed  unconcernedly  near  a  tall  large-boned,  blazed 
faced  weight-carrier,  rather  suggesting  a  cavalry  horse  in  aspect^ 
that  obviously  was  destined  for  Bill. 

"He  seems  gentle  enough,"  commented  the  artist. 

"Sure,"  assured  Fred.  "He  vas  a  children's  horse.  Dot's 
vy  I  gets  him  for  you.  You  vas  so  busy  looking  at  efery dings 
van  you  rides,  you  don'd  haf  no  time  to  break  no  buck-jumper." 

Still  the  artist  was  not  satisfied.  He  somehow  felt  it  an. 
aspersion  on  his  equita- 
tory  abilities,  though  he 
had  not  claimed  to  be 
a  horseman — that  he 
should  be  mounted  upon 
the  smallest  bit  of  horse- 
flesh in  the  bunch. 

"  Isn't  he  a  bit 
small?"  he  queried. 

"Veil,  if  you  spills 
off,  you  don'd  haf  so  far 
to  fall;  und  ven  you  do, 
der  liddle  horse,  he  stops 
und  vaits  for  you  to 
get  on  again." 

Fred's  argument 
appeared  unanswerable. 
Art  drew  a  sedate  judi- 
cial animal,  of  leisurely 
air  and  meditative 
habits,  belonging  to  Jay,  "Saddle  up" 


Page  71 


72  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


that  at  the  artist's  instance  was  promptly  dubbed  "the  old 
Roman,"  equally  in  allusion  to  the  shape  of  his  nose  and  his  air 
of  senatorial  dignity. 

"Think  he  can  carry  Art?"  asked  the  artist  of  Fred. 

"You  bet.  By  golly,  he  carries  him  all  right.  Maybe  not 
fast — he  vas  not  built  dot  vay,  but  he  carries  him.  It  vas  not 
kind  to  ask  him  for  more." 

"Saddle  up,  you  two,"  directed  William,  "and  go  up  the  road 
an  hour  and  come  back  an  hour.  Jimmy  needs  hardening  to  the 
saddle  for  the  trip  to  Tepee,  and  you  need  training  down." 

"But,  look  here,  Fred,  where's  the  bridle?"  queried  Jim,  as, 
ready  to  start,  he  observed  that  his  beast  had,  in  place  of  the 
accustomed  head  furnishings,  merely  a  hackamore. 

"You  don'd need  no  bridle  mit  him.  Vhen  you  wants  him  to 
go  to  der  left,  you  shoost  slaps  him  on  der  neck  mit  der  rope;  und 
vhen  you  wants  him  to  go  der  other  way,  you  pulls  der  rope, 
not  very  hard,  und  he  goes.  Und  if  you  wants  him  to  get  busy 
und  hump  himselluf,  you  kick  him  in  der  ribs,  und  he  goes." 

"Humph.  He  must  be  pretty  well  trained.  Supposing  he 
bolts?" 

"Veil,  I  vas  shoost  telling  you  you  don'd  haf  to  fall  far.  If 
you  can't  shtop  him,  you  can  get  off  qvick  und  easy.  But  you 
don'd  haf  to  be  afraid  of  that.  He  vas  well  trained.  Dot's  why 
I  gets  him  for  you.  You  vas  not  all  there  all  der  time" — here  the 
rest  of  the  camp  grinned  out  loud — "you  vas  looking  at  things 
so  hard,  und  thinking  aboudt  pictures  all  der  time.  Und  dot 
liddle  horse,  he  knows  his  business  You  do  vot  you  likes,  und 
leaf  him  alone,  und  he  dakes  care  of  you." 

That  was  conclusive.  The  artist  mounted  his  equine  custo- 
dian, and  took  it  for  granted  that  things  were  all  right. 

Fifteen  minutes  on  the  way,  sufficient  for  the  artist  to  in- 
wardly congratulate  himself  upon  the  easy  lope  of  his  beast,  and 
the  conveniently  short  distance  from  his  back  to  the  ground  in 
case  of  a  spill,  Art  pulled  up  suddenly,  and  inquired,  indicating 
his  own,  "Don't  you  think  this  is  a  hard-gaited  horse?"  Before 
the  ride  was  half  over,  one  at  least  of  the  two  cavaliers  had  reason 
to  know  the  evil  effects  of  suddenly  and  heavily  working  a  set  of 
long-disused  muscles,  and  his  principal  anxiety  was  that  he 
should  not  appear  to  his  riding  mate  ever  to  have  done  anything 


New  Experiences 


73 


else  on  earth  but  sit  a  horse.  If  Art  suffered  the  protest  of  unac- 
customed knee  and  thigh  muscles  to  anything  like  the  extent  of 
his  fellow  on  the  equitatory  excursion,  then  the  only  conclusion 
possible  is  that  he  is  the  champion  bluffer  of  the  world. 

On  the  road  back,  from  an  excursion  over  the  old  wagon  road 
that  wound  out  of  sight  round  the  shoulder  of  the  big  hill  north- 
west of  camp,  a  wagon  drawn  by  a  team  was  encountered.  The 
governing  Jehu,  in  no  wise  driving  like  his  scriptural  prototype, 
elderly  and  spare,  with  a  sparse  chin  beard,  and  weather-shrewd 
eyes  that  blinked  within  red  rims  through  spectacles  mended  with 


.■/•'■         ..In'"".!!  •M,,i.i>- 

'■'f'l"   ■**••■'    ' 

—      .■■»"*k'if>".-'0.*i 

'My-'-y^--   i"'      '-^       y^ 


"Round  the  shoulder  of  the  big  hill" 

pack  thread,  sitting  askew  upon  a  thin  bridged  nose,  halted  to  pass 
the  time  of  day  with  the  horsemen.  In  the  course  of  a  five-minute 
talk  to  the  accompaniment  of  thoughtful  mastication  of  a  liberal 
mouthful  of  plug  tobacco,  it  was  learned  that  the  gentleman 
guiding  the  destinies  of  the  team  had  been  in  the  West  some  fifty 
odd  years,  was  seventy  years  old,  and  operated  a  hay  ranch  on  a 
quarter  section  some  distance  northwest  of  Grayling  postoffice. 


74  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


To  the  question,  "Are  you  married?"  he  returned  for  answer: 

**H — 11,  no.     I  'm  waiting  till  I  get  old  enough." 

"Live  alone  on  your  ranch?" 

"Yes." 

The  artist  queried,  "Don't  you  get  lonesome?" 

With  a  gesture  that  comprehended  mountain,  lake,  and  hill- 
side in  its  sweep,  the  answer  came: 

"H — 11,  no.     Too  much  to  look  at." 

It  was  sufficient.  The  cavaliers  rode  on,  the  artist  feeling 
that  he  had  met  a  kindred  spirit. 

In  their  absence  the  rest  of  the  camp  had  aired  bedding, 
blankets,  and  clothing  and  made  things  ready  for  breaking  camp 
on  the  morrow.  During  the  morning  there  were  observed  in  willow 
brush  near  the  camp,  large  numbers  of  bobolinks,  meadow  larks, 
and  chits,  in  addition  to  finches,  yellow-hammers,  and  blackbirds 
in  flocks,  obviously  migrating  south. 

In  the  afternoon,  while  the  artist  sketched.  Bill  and  Art 
went  to  target  practice,  and  after  this  up  the  river  for  duck — the 
last  trip  before  breaking  camp.  After  their  departure,  the  artist 
took  advantage  of  Jay's  temporary  freedom  from  pressing  duties 
to  obtain  a  little  closer  acquaintance  with  Jay  Whitman,  the 
Missourian. 

Jay  is  a  strong,  kindly  soul,  very  much  inclined  to  take  men 
and  things  for  what  they  are,  and  with  a  simple,  direct  familiarity 
of  manner  that  nevertheless  never  trespasses  upon  the  personal 
reserve  of  his  interlocutor.  The  net  result  of  the  talk  may  be 
better  given  in  this  quotation  from  a  letter  written  by  the  artist 
to  his  wife: 

"Let  those  who  will  lament  the  decay  of  polite  conversation — 
those  who  think  the  only  things  worth  talking  about  are  books, 
art,  music,  and  the  cult  of  culture  generally.  To  h — 11  with  them. 
Let  them  but  sit  down  with  open  mind  and  respectful  address  to 
a  man  such  as  Jay  Whitman,  and,  if  they  have  intelligence  enough, 
exchange  with  him  familiar  talk  of  those  things  that  to  him  are  the 
main  things  of  life;  the  cutting  and  curing  of  prairie  hay,  its  baling 
and  marketing ;  plowing  and  seeding  for  timothy ;  the  self  denials 
and  hardships  attendant  on  the  filing  and  proving  up  on  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty  acres  of  government  land — which  he  now  owns — 
the  breeding  and  grading  of  cattle  and  its  current  price  on  the  hoof; 


New  Experiences  75 


the  handling  and  care  of  horses;  farm  machinery;  the  difference 
in  climate  of  different  parts  of  Idaho  and  Montana;  his  occasional 
v/ork  as  a  guide,  which  helps  out  with  the  hay  ranch  and  furnishes 
vacation  as  well — it's  too  high  up  to  grow  much  else;  the  price  of 
hay  and  its  variation ;  and  from  all  this  they  will  gather  a  tale  of 
human  interest,  and  a  vivid  picturing  of  the  necessities  and  needs 
of  human  life  in  the  great  West,  impossible  to  realize  when  one 
talks  only  of  the  cultured  frills  of  life. 

"  I  haven't  opened  a  book  or  felt  any  inclination  to  read  since 
I  have  been  here.  The  man  who  can't  think  a  thought  or  two  for 
himself  in  this  soul-inspiring  environment  surely  has  a  bum  bean." 

The  hunters  returned  after  sundown  with  some  mallards, 
followed  a  few  minutes  later  by  Fred,  leading  a  forsaken  looking 
and  melancholy  wreck  of  a  horse,  destined  for  bear  bait  at  the 
new  camp.  With  a  clear  sunset,  after  a  warm  and  cloudless  day, 
the  evening  was  given  over  to  packing  for  departure ;  and  bedtime 
came  with  a  moon  a  fortnight  old  in  the  sky  in  conjunction  with 
the  evening  star,  and  a  cloudless  and  frosty  night,  with  the  wind 
from  the  southeast. 


HITTING  THE  TRAIL 


Tuesday  the  twenty-ninth. 

This  was  the  great  day.  "You  first,  Jim,"  the  colonel's 
voice  commanded,  in  the  sleeping  tent  at  daybreak.  "You  hit 
the  hay  first  last  night."  A  frosty  morning,  a  clear  sun  moving 
through  barred  clouds,  and  a  gentle  wind  from  the  southwest 
promised  a  splendid  day  for  the  trip  at  hand.  The  artist,  medi- 
tative at  breakfast,  the  matutinal  cigarette  thoughtfully  poised 
in  his  fingers,  received  yet  another  reminder  of  the  urgency  of 
the  day's  business.  "Start  to  eating.  We've  got  to  knock  this 
tent  down  pretty  soon." 

Promptly  after  breakfast  camp  impedimenta  was  brought 

forth  from  the  tents,  per- 
sonal belongings  packed, 
bedding  rolled  and  tents 
struck.  In  rolling  a  pack 
of  bedding  William  showed 
himself  an  adept,  distribut- 
ing folds  and  thicknesses  of 
material,  wrapping,  rolling, 
and  cording  it  away  with  a 
mastery  and  finished  crafts- 
manship that  betrayed  the 
man  of  many  pack  trails. 
In  the  course  of  forming 
one  masterly  pack,  he  took 
occasion  to  emphasize  to 
the  artist  the  importance 
of  laying  blankets  with  the 
folds  alternate,  in  order  to 
produce  an  even  roll,  otherwise  they  would,  rolling  on  the 
folds,  produce  a  "conical  cone."  Pack  and  saddle  animals  were 
brought  up  and  saddled,  slickers  tied,  rifle  scabbards  hitched  to 
saddle  bows,  and  leaving  the  guides,  with  an  extra  packer 
who  came  into  camp  the  night  before,  to  attend  to  the  busi- 
ness of  loading  the  camp  kit  on  the  pack  animals,  and  the  heavy 


Last  dispatches 


Page  76 


Hitting  the  Trail 


77 


Art  writes  home 


\.K 


impedimenta  on  the  wagon, 

to    be    taken     to    Grayling 

postoffice,  William,  Art,  and 

the  artist  mounted  and  took 

a  leisurely  way  to  Grayling 

postoffice.      Here,    with    the 

matter-of-course   hospitality 

of  the  West,  they  joined  the 

company  there,  some  seven 

in  number,  at   the  mid-day 

dinner.      The    dinner,    with 

its    distinctive     "home" 

quality,    derived    from    the 

deft  hands  and  culinary  taste 

of  the  postmistress,   formed 

an  epicureanly  relished  con- 
trast   to    the   camp    fare    of    the    preceding    fortnight. 

Immediately  on  the  conclusion  of  this  the   pack   train  ap- 
peared  in   sight   at   the    mouth   of   the    canyon    that    taced  the 

messtent  door,  a 
long  mile  away 
from  the  camp 
just  left.  And 
now  the  march 
began  in  earnest, 
through  a  pleas- 
ant meadow  of 
wild  hay,  oh 
either  side  of 
which  the  hills  of 
Red  canyon  rose 
steeply  to  fir 
crowned  heights, 
with  great  bas- 
tions of  bare  rock, 
often  in  vertical 
strata,  showing 
between  them. 
Trying  mounts  A  grove  of  aspen 


7S 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


"'^iri?! 


The  aspen  groves 

interspersed  with  the  ad- 
vance guard  of  the  firs,  was 
passed,  and  the  trail  began 
to  rise,  through  a  succession 
of  pleasant  rolling  meadows 
cut  by  trilling  streams,  in 
ivhich  stood,  low  descending  from  the  clothed  hillsides,  noble 
clumps  of  pine  and  red  fir.  Grouse  and  pheasant  three  or  four 
times  got  up  and  streamed  away  before  the  two  advance  riders. 
Jay  and  Jim,  behind  whom  followed  the  cavalcade  of  half  a  dozen 
pack  horses,  and  the  four  remaining  cavaliers  who  completed  the 
party.  The  trail  narrowed,  the  timber  pressed  more  closely, 
the  ascent  became  more  abrupt,  broken  by  descents  into 
various  ravines  water-bottomed. 

At  an  angle  of  the  trail,  the  party  passed  close  under  the 
vertical  side  of  a  precipitous  outcrop  from  the  mountainside 
whose  sheer  face  rose  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  and,  turning  the 
corner,  followed  the  trail  down  an  abrupt  descent  of  something 
more  than  a  sixty  degree  pitch.  Across  a  mud-bottomed  torrent 
at  its  bottom,  the  trail  turned  sharply  around  the  base,  and 
under  the  overhanging  side  of  a  single  mass  of  rock  about  the 
size  of  a  Chicago  business  block,  fallen  from  the  heights  far  above, 
that,  resting  with  its  strata  inclined  upward,  lay  in  the  spot  where 
the  stream's  former  bed  had  been.  A  little  beyond  this  point, 
looking   back   from  a  clear  knoll,   the  Madison  basin  just  left 


Hitting  the  Trail 


79 


was  observed  to  widen  and  deepen 
to  the  southwest  horizon.  Up  and 
up,  through  heavy  timber,  with  many 
descents  into,  and  ascents  out  of 
innumerable  ravines  the  party  at  last 


Tightening  up  a  pack 


^^.^Stp-Tir^sx^ . 


came  to  an  ascent  where  the  entire  troop,  to  ease  their  horses, 
dismounted  and  went  up  on  foot,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
some  panting  and  jesting  at  their  own  weakness  by  the  most 
short-winded  climbers.  A  clump  or  two  of  asters  still  in  bloom 
were  noted  in  sheltered  places,  though  between  the  trees,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  depths  that  lay  upon  the  right  hand,  snow, 
left  from   the  storm  of  ten  days  since,  was  still  lying. 

Open  hay  meadows,  fringed  with  rising  heights,  dotted  with 
the  noble  clumps  of  the  nut  pine — to  the  artist's  eye  one  of  the 
most  strongly  graceful  and  beautiful  of  trees — succeeded,  always 
on  a  gentle  upward  slope. 

About  rose  the  hills  in  the  golden  glow  of  a  slanting  sun, 
below  descended  the  blue  depths;  and  so  lost  was  the  artist  in 
his  eager  contemplation  of  the  beauty  about  him  that  it  was 
well  for  him  that,  foreseeing  his  absent-minded  weakness,  he  had 
been  provided   with  a  surefooted  and  wiseheaded  pony. 

Here  the  colonel,  riding  fifty  yards  to  the  right  of  the  north- 
ward-tending trail  beckoned  the  artist.  The  painter  man  came 
to  the  edge  of  the  ridge,  and  looked.  He  could  not  but  swing 
his  hat  and  cheer.  Below,  blue  deeps  stretched  below  deeps  to 
a  distant  vista  of  the  Madison  river  basin,  whose  willow-bordered 
stream  wound  as  a  ribbon  of  silver  through  the  golden  plain, 
hazily  lovely  in  the  diffused  light  of  the  afternoon  sun.  In  the 
far  southern  horizon  floated  a  noble  height  of  before  unseen 
mountains,  luminously  blue  against  a  pearl  sky.  Across  the 
6 


80 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


.  ") 


On  the  Divide 

canyon  the  fir  crowned  heights  opened  to  a  vista  of  valleys  be- 
yond valleys  that  terminated  in  a  rose-pearl  haze  through  which 
showed  the  snow-marked  blue  heights  which  marked  the  Teton 
range,  eighty  miles  away. 

A  little  further  and  the  leading  pair  of  pack  animals,  with 
Jay  Whitman  riding  ahead  on  the  trail,  crossing  a  hay  meadow, 
suddenly  cut  sharp  against  the  sky,  with  beyond  them  the  Mount 
Holmes  chain  in  Yellowstone  Park,  on  the  other  side  of  a  valley 
as  yet  unseen.  This  was  the  divide,  the  apex  of  things.  Now 
came  the  descent  into  Tepee  basin.  Down,  down,  down,  on  a 
trail  that  twisted,  turned  and  doubled  through  close  set  timber 
and  bush,  with  fallen  trees  at  all  angles  and  in  numbers  uncount- 
able. At  last,  from  the  crest  of  a  succession  of  rolling  hills,  which 
fell  abruptly  on  one  side  down  into  the  valley.  Tepee  creek  was 
seen  half  hidden  in  a  close  thicket  of  scrub  willow.  On  its  other 
side  was  a  slight  footing  of  open  ground,  above  which  rose  fir 
clothed  heights  against  the  north. 

To  the  left,  at  the  western  end  of  the  valley,  rose  a  splen- 
didly dominating  triangular  pile.  Old  Baldy — a  true  peak — 
massively  and  proudly  upstanding,  lifting  its  crest  into  the  sky 
with  an  abrupt  mastery  of  the  surrounding  ranges  that  pro- 
claimed it  an  aristocrat  of  the  hills.  On  the  plateau,  on  the 
further  side  of  the  stream,  in  a  sheltering  angle  of  the  firs,  at 
the  base  of  the  mountain  that  closed  the  northern  side  of  the 
valley  lay  Camp  Tepee,  which  had  been  built  two  years  ago  by 
William  and  two  of  his  Chicago  friends,  i.e.  E.  B.  Ellicott  and 
W.  A.  Jackson.  Long,  low,  log  built,  with  generously  projecting 
eaves,  and  the  square  pile  of  the  newly  added  chimney  at  the 
further    end    speaking    of    the    welcoming    hearth   within,   every 


Hitting  the  Trail 


81 


projecting  log  end  beside  spoke  the  welcome  of  a  camp  set 
apart  for  the  fellowship  of  the  open  spaces. 

The  colonel  dismounted,  and  inspected  the  smashed 
door  and  window  contiguous,  whose  glass  and  woodwork 
lay    scattered  on   the  floor  within.       "Bear"    he   pro- 
nounced briefly,  indicating  the  tell-tale  smudge 
of  a  mailed  and  muddy   paw  upon   the  door. 

After  the  unslinging  of  packs  and  dump- 
ing of  impedimenta  upon   the  broad  veran- 
dah, sheltered  by  the  gable  eave,  wood  was 
mustered,  the  initial  match  was  struck,  and 
the    christening    blaze    started    upon     the 
hearth   of    the   new   fireplace.      Round 


Camp  Tepee 


arched,  of  rough-hewn  native  stone,  its  chimney,  of  hillside  boul- 
ders bedded  in  cement,  drawing  as  a  chimney  should,  by  its 
hospitable  glow  was  illuminated  its  own  testimonial  to  the  crafts- 
manship of  its  architects  and  builders,  Fred  Reichenbach  and 
Jay  Whitman.  The  twelve  hundred  pounds  of  cement  used  in 
its  construction,  to  say  nothing  of  tools,  some  trifles  of  squared 
lumber,  and  supplies,  had  all  been  packed  in  on  horses,  twenty- 
four  miles,  from  Yellowstone. 


82  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


With  the  strewing  of  hay  in  the  bunks,  the  folding  of  the 
blankets,  supper,  the  vespertine  card  game  of  the  two  devotees, 
the  health  of  the  new  camp  in  a  deoch  and  doris,  and  a  settling 
to  sleep,  with  a  clear  and  frost-filled  sky  without,  ended  this  day. 


THE  HIGH  PLACES 


IVednesday)  the  thirtieth. 

In  a  sunny  frosty  morning,  the  camp  still  in  morning 
shadow,  something  to  the  tolerant  amusement  of  Jay,  the 
Missouri  guide,  the  artist  gave  himself  the  aesthetic  pleasure  of 
a  morning  toilet  in  the  open,  at  the  fountain  of  clear  and  cold 
mountain  water,  carried  in  a  split  log  conduit,  that  made  its 
tinkling  plunge  among  its  night-grown  icicles  fifty  feet  from  the 
cabin  door.  Through  the  morning,  while  other  members  of  the 
party  oiled  boots,  and  were  busy  with  other  camp  duties, 
the  artist,  three  hundred  yards  down  the  valley,  with  his  sketch- 
ing kit,  alternately  lifted  color,  despaired,  and  prayed  the  gods 
of  all  beauty  as  he  studied  the  changing  expression  of  Baldy's 
face,  and  sought  to  indicate  the  atmospheric  depth  and  myste- 
ries of  his  attendant  regiments  of  pine  and  fir. 

This  afternoon,  under  guidance  of  Jay,  the  colonel.  Art  and 
the  artist  were  taken  up  the  camp's  protecting  mountainside. 
Leaving  a  difficult  trail  through  the  firs,  came  a  succession  of 
upland  parks  from  which  rose  noble  groups  of  firs  and  nut  pines. 
Next  to  the  stubborn  dignity  of  the  nut  pine,  the  thing  most 
remarked  was  the  splendid  spiring  symmetry  of  the  fir  families, 
whose  darkly  green  steeples  in  ordered  irregularity  pointed  the 
soaring  slopes  over  which  the  party  rode. 

The  beauty  of  the  firs  and  pines  is  a  constant  joy.  Where 
the  hills  break  into  grass-covered  slopes  and  near-levels,  as  they 
do  constantly,  the  firs  arrange  themselves  in  beautiful,  sym- 
metrical groups,  a  family  of  smaller  trees  round  about  some 
towering  patriarch  from  whose  seed  the  circle  about  him  has 
sprung.  Almost  invariably  there  is  within  the  charmed  circle 
a  little  secluded  space  of  grass  and  wild  flowers,  and  shade-loving 
brush  and  moss,  in  which  the  wild  birds  and  wild  animals  find 
harborage. 

The  nut  pine,  too  is  another  glorious  tree.  With  a  nearly 
smooth  trunk,  branching  irregularly  with  stubborn  strength  into 
a  splendid  doming  mass  of  foliage,  growing  always  in  proud 
isolation,  it  is  a  veritable  king  of  the  high  levels. 

Page  83 


84  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


Jay  stopped  his  horse,  looked  at  the  ground  beside  him, 
and  pointed  down.  WilHam  rode  up,  and  inspected  Hkewise 
with  interest.  The  artist  and  Art,  curious,  followed  suit.  Elk 
tracks.  Constantly  through  the  afternoon  were  the  guide's 
eyes  upon  the  ground  he  traversed.  Elk  tracks  were  seen  con- 
tinuously. Some  of  them,  cautiously  allowed  the  guide,  might 
have  been  made  the  night  before.  Trees  were  shown  the  artist 
where  the  bark  had  been  rubbed  clear  down  to  the  bare  wood, 
over  a  span  a  foot  or  two  in  height.  These  were  where  some  bull 
elk  had  rubbed  his  horns.  In  the  height  from  the  ground  at 
which  the  rubbing  started,  and  the  extent  of  the  abrasion  was 
possible  evidence  of  the  height  and  spread  of  horn  of  the  animal 
making  it.     To  himself  the  artist  quoted  Scott: 

"We  can  show  you  where  he  lies 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size. 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed." 

Presently,  upon  a  noble  height,  the  party  looked  down 
upon  and  across  a  veritable  sea  of  mountains.  Yonder  was  the 
Gallatin  range.  This  was  Electric  Peak.  That  yonder,  in- 
dicating a  faint  blue,  silverlaced  splendor  on  the  far  horizon, 
seen  between  the  parting  of  the  clouds,  was  Emigrant  Peak. 
To  the  south,  crowning  the  blue  band  that  girdled  the  field  of 
vision,  was  old  Twotop,  the  mountain  the  artist  had  painted  at 
evening  but  the  other  day  on  Madison  river,  whose  peak  marked 
the  height  of  the  Continental  Divide  and  the  parting  of  the 
waters,  flowing  respectively  to  the  Gulf  and  the  Pacific.  Directly 
in  front,  seeming  near  at  hand,  but  miles  away  through  the 
clear  air,  rose  a  tremendous  hog-back,  its  top  sere  and  yellow, 
with  a  few  dwarf  firs  and  spruces  in  sheltered  spots,  its  length 
to  be  computed  in  miles,  its  sides  dropping  in  torn  and  jagged 
ribs  of  rock  that  rose  up  from  titanic  slides,  emerging  from  a 
forest  of  fir  and  pine  lost  in  blue  depths  that  only  an  eagle's  eye 
might  fathom.  Along  its  crest  ran  the  boundary  line  of  the  Gal- 
latin Game  Preserve,  set  apart  by  the  State  of  Montana,  the 
line  continuing  along  the  ridges  to  the  west,  and  bisecting  the 
great  peak  that  dominates  Tepee  valley,  Baldy,  whose  crown 
rose  another  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  the  ridge,  five  miles  to 
the  west. 


The  High  Places  85 


The  point  on  which  the  quartette  stood,  an  upstanding  spur 
of  rock  whose  vertically  splintered  sides  dropped  sheer  a  hundred 
feet  or  more  to  the  point  of  emergence  from  a  great  slide  that 
quickly  lost  itself  in  obscure  deeps  of  fir  and  pine,  was  seamed 
and  torn,  with  great  boulders  and  lesser  fragments  of  rock  hurled 
about  in  a  cyclopean  disorder.  There  were  no  heights  above 
from  which  they  could  have  come  down.  The  slow  action  of 
seeping  water,  and  rock  splitting  frost  succeeding,  even  through 
long-drawn  hundreds  of  centuries,  might  not  account  for  but 
an  infinitesimal  part  of  the  palaeolithic  upheaval.  With  a  slight 
mental  shock  one  came  to  a  rather  awed  recognition  of  the  fact  that 
the  party  looked  upon  the  remains  of  the  initial  battle  of  forces 
— the  debris  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  world.  There  is  no 
word.  Thought  can  only  vaguely  grope.  One  can  but  look  at  the 
rocks  everlasting,  statant  to  eternity  from  the  primal  disorder — 
noting  on  their  faces  the  golden  flame  of  lichen  that  may  have 
caught  and  sent  back  the  evening  glows  of  a  thousand  centuries. 

With  field  glasses  the  sides  of  the  mountain  across  the 
canyon  were  raked  slowly  and  systematically,  every  craggy  ledge, 
every  sun-warmed  nook  being  scanned  for  bighorn — the  moun- 
tain sheep  of  the  Rockies.  Nothing  was  seen  to  move,  nor  could 
with  any  certainty  be  anything  picked  out  among  piles  of  scat- 
tered rock,  or  in  herbaged  corners  that  might  be  reckoned  the 
bodies  of  sheep  couchant.  For,  as  Jay  explained:  "The  mountain 
sheep  matches  that  pile  of  rock  in  color,  and  unless  he  stands 
clear  against  the  sky,  or  a  patch  of  herbage,  or  moves,  you  might 
take  your  glasses  right  over  him,  and  not  know  he  was  there. 
Yes,  sir,  I  reckon  he  is  one  of  the  hardest  animals  to  find  there 
is  going,  and  the  greatest  of  trophies  if  you  happen  to  get  him." 

Evening  drawing  in,  came  the  descent  and  return  to  camp. 
The  prime  descent  was  made  almost  at  the  base  of  Baldy  and 
thence  down  the  valley,  following  the  creek.  A  cloudy  gray 
sundown  and  a  slight  halo  around  the  moon  three  quarters  full 
promised  rain  for  the  morrow. 

As  a  side-light  on  the  sometimes  necessary  and  economical 
discipline  of  camp  life  far  from  a  base  of  supplies,  it  may  be 
remarked  that  the  customary  coronas  handed  out  by  William 
after  dinner  were  omitted  this  evening.  "We  get  'em  only 
every  other  evening  now,"  said  he. 


THE  CONTENT  OF  QUIET  DAYS 


Thursday,  October  the  first. 

William  and  Art,  under  the  guidance  of  Jay  and  Earl 
Counter,  the  new  guide  and  packer  who  came  into  camp  on 
Monday  night,  being  bent  on  a  try  for  elk,  the  camp  was  early 
astir,  in  spite  of  heavy  fog  and  a  feel  of  approaching  rain  in  the 
air. 

At  breakfast,  Art  to  the  artist  spoke  thusly:  "I  want  to 
apologize  to  you  for  reaching  across  you.  I've  done  it  several 
times  before,  and  expect  to  do  it  again  several  times  more,  so  I 
want  this  apology  to  stand  for  all  the  time  we  are  in  camp." 
This  comprehensive  forestalling  of  camp  life  abruptness  created 
a  general  laugh. 

Rain  came  during  the  forenoon  and  a  heavy  fog  after  the 
departure  of  the  hunters.  Jay  and  William  came  back  about 
1 0 :30  reporting  nothing.  A  good  day  for  a  blazing  fire  and  indoor 
diversion.  Fred's  hounds  were  yawning  their  heads  off.  Art 
and  Counter  returned  upon  noon.  Counter  reporting  having 
seen  the  fore  end  of  a  bull  and  the  after  end  of  a  cow  elk. 

A  sunny  afternoon,  and  William  and  Jay  down  the  valley 
prospecting  for  elk,  and  Fred  to  set  a  couple  of  bear  traps,  some 
distance  from  camp. 

Baldy  was  more  splendid  than  ever  in  late  afternoon,  with 
its  northeastern  side  in  the  shadow,  a  great  flash  of  sun  on  its 
southern  shoulder,  cloud  shadows  lying  violet  upon  its  lower 
forests,  the  valley  below  golden  in  the  haze  of  Indian  summer 
barred  with  the  long  cast  shadows  of  sentinel  pines.  A  camp 
robber  (Colorado  magpie)  with  plumage  flashing  iridescent  blue 
and  violet  in  the  sun,  was  desperately  interested  in  the  artist's 
sketch  and  on  the  branch  of  a  convenient  tree  behind  him  crit- 
icised his  painting  with  the  utmost  freedom. 

On  sundown,  the  artist,  desirous  of  riding  down  the  valley, 
looking  for  the  black  Indian  pony  he  had  so  far  been  riding, 
put  a  halter  on,  took  the  hobbles  from,  brought  into  camp  and 
saddled  up  a  horse  of  corresponding  color,  ridden  by  Fred,  no- 
toriously  difficult    to   mount.     Under   the   artist's   gentling   and 

Page  £6 


The  Content  of  Quiet  Days  87 


soothing  conversation  the  kicker  had  submitted  like  a  lamb  to 
all  preliminary  operations  and  was  even  rubbing  his  head  against 
the  painter's  shoulder  as  he  prepared  to  mount.  At  this  point, 
Fred,  who  from  the  verandah,  placidly  puffing  at  a  piratical 
looking  and  evil-smelling  briar  that  he  affected,  had  been  watching 
the  proceedings  with  apparent  unconcern,  interposed: 

"Say,  hold  on  there,  you've  got  der  wrong  horse." 

"  Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  py  golly,  that  is  so,  und  he  might  throw  you  off.  If 
you  wants  to  ride  him — I  guess  you  can — all  right — but  I  don'd 
want  to  be  responsible." 

"He's  been  gentle  enough  with  me  so  far." 

"Yes,  dot  vas  all  right,  but  it's  when  you  goes  to  get  on  him, 
py  golly,  dot  der  hell  breaks  loose — you  wants  to  get  on  him 
quick — und  then  stay." 

The  writer  is  not  at  all  ashamed  to  admit  that  knowing  his 
own  inexpertness  as  a  horseman,  he  accepted  the  friendly  warn- 
ing, and  desisted  from  pursuing  his  mistake  in  equine  identity 
to  a  conclusion  that  would  have  been  suffered  by  a  meanly  prac- 
tical joker  in  silence,  for  the  enjoyment  of  another's  discomfiture. 

A  word  of  counsel  given  by  William  to  the  artist  just  before 
turning  in  is  worth  noting  for  the  benefit  of  other  city  dwellers 
who  may  come  into  the  mountain  fastnesses.  "Don't  go  into 
the  timber  without  a  guide.  Stay  in  the  open  and  in  sight  of 
a  mark  of  camp.  Make  it  a  point  always  to  have  lots  of  matches 
with  you.  If  you  do  get  lost,  build  a  fire,  and  stick  right  by 
it.  Stay  there  if  you  have  to  stay  there  a  week.  The  camp 
will  find  you  by  the  smoke." 


Friday  the  seconds 

The  morning  broke  rainy  and  misty.  At  breakfast  Fred 
recited  the  details  of  a  horse  deal  he  tried  to  make  with  an  Indian. 

"Der  Indian,  he  has  a  pony  dot  looks  good  to  me.  "He 
vas  a  mighty  trim  liddle  pony  und  I  liked  him.  I  think  I  likes 
to  puy  him.  Der  Indian  wanted  me  to  gif  him  seventy-five 
dollars.  I  wouldn't  gif  him  but  sixty-five.  Der  Indian,  he 
shoost  grunts  und  shakes  his  head.  I  has  some  good  high-proof 
whiskey  with  me,  und  I  thinks  may  be  it  softens  him  up  a  liddle 


S8  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


if  I  gifs  him  der  whiskey.  He  not  get  very  drunk.  He  only 
drinks  aboudt  a  quart  und  he  was  not  drunk.  Und  den  he  asks 
me  for  der  pony  one  hundert  und  fifty  dollars." 

The  following  string  of  definitions  was  handed  out  by  Earl 
Counter  in  a  talk  on  horses.  Ca^use:  an  inferior  breed  of  horse 
of  low  grade,  the  word  originally  Spanish.  Pinto:  a  spotted  horse, 
Broncho:  an  unbroken  or  wild  horse.  Mustang:  Mexican  for  an 
inferior  breed  corresponding  to  the  cayuse,  running  in  mesquite 
brush.  The  cow  pony  is  not  a  distinct  breed.  "I  rode  in  one 
outfit  where  they  had  all  kinds  of  horses  from  cayuses  up  to 
thoroughbreds  from  imported  stallions,  and  they  were  all  used 
as  cow  ponies.  And  some  of  them  were  mean  horses.  When 
you  get  a  cross-breed  between  a  cayuse  and  a  thoroughbred  you 
get  about  the  meanest  horse  going.  It's  like  crossing  Indian  and 
white,  all  the  wisdom  of  the  one  and  the  cunning  and  the  sav- 
agery of  the  other." 

The  only  bird  life  seen  to-day  was  a  large  California  blue- 
jay,  darkly  indigo  in  the  rain  which  continued  all  day.  The  camp 
kept  busy  within  doors,  washing  towels  and  underwear, 
inspecting  arms  and  such  trifling  occupations.  William  and 
Jay  were  out  in  the  morning  tracking  elk,  but  saw  none.  Art 
and  Counter  in  the  afternoon  were  also  prospecting,  and  Fred 
dieparted  to  set  another  bear  trap. 

A  mantel  board  eight  feet  long,  a  foot  broad  and  two  inches 
thick  supported  on  unbarked  fir  brackets  was  placed  over  the 
fireplace  by  William  and  Jay.  A  noble  pair  of  elk  horns,  on  the 
original  skull,  was  centered  over  the  mantel,  and  between  the 
horns,  upon  the  axe-hewn  logs  the  monogram  of  the  Tepee  Hunt- 
ing Club  was  illuminated  in  bright  colors  by  the  artist.  A  six 
sided  table,  longer  than  broad,  comfortably  heavy  and  solid, 
was  devised  and  built  by  the  same  artificers  from  some  stray 
planks.  With  an  under-beam  of  a  half  log,  to  which  three  splayed 
legs  were  spiked,  two  from  either  end  of  one  side,  and  one  from 
the  center  of  the  other,  the  outward  spread  of  each  leg,  from 
the  downward  pressure  of  the  table  top,  was  taken  up  and  neu- 
ralized  by  a  cross-beam  on  the  line  of  intersection.  It  rep- 
resented a  most  creditable  bit  of  engineering  ingenuity  and 
carpentry  combined. 

In  the  person  of  Earl  Counter,  after  supper,  the  plainsman 


The  Content  of  Quiet  Days 


89 


The  interior  of  Camp  Tepee 


showed  himself  a  keen  and  acute  critic  of  current  magazine  fiction 
deaUng  with  range  hfe.  The  point  of  his  criticism  was  directed 
most  forcibly  against  the  idiom  and  slang  put  into  the  mouths 
of  his  cattlemen  by  the  author  of  "Wolfville  Days."  Cowmen, 
vide  Counter,  did  not  habitually  use  slang  in  that  reckless  and 
superfluous  way.  In  fact,  their  speech,  even  allowing  for  the 
peculiar  nomenclature  of  their  calling,  was  far  freer  from  per- 
versions of  the  language  than  was  that  of  most  city  dwellers. 
It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to  find  men  of  education  riding 
the  ranges,  but  even  outside  of  these  the  typical  rangeman  would 
be,  to  the  "atmosphere-seeking"  romance  hunter,  fed  on  mag- 
azine dope,  disappointingly  restrained,  not  to  say  simple  in  his 
speech. 

Mr.  Counter,  born  in  Kansas,  "raised"  in  Montana,  on  the 
range  all  his  life,  and  Mr.  Jay  Whitman,  born  in  Missouri,  in 
the  West  since  1881,  equally  a  rangeman,  may,  it  is  assumed,  be 
taken   as   fairly   typical   examples   of   cattleman   and   ranchman 


90 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


respectively.  In  their 
speech,  save  for  a  few  eUsions 
and  neutrahzed  negatives, 
occurs  less  of  slang  and 
fewer  perversions  than  are 
noticeable  among  many  pre- 
sumably cultured  city  dwell- 
ers. Of  the  peculiar  slang 
of  their  calling,  the  magazine- 
bred  range  idiom  and  phras- 
ing, there  is  none.  In  fact 
their  language  is  almost 
classic  in  its  directness  and 
simplicity,  and  except  to  a 
grammatical  pragmatist,  as 
pure  as  it  well  can  be. 

To  the  artist,  playing 
solitaire,  comes  William: 
"Oh,  Jim,  when  is  a  wolf 
not  a — here,  wait  a  minute."  Business  of  cogitation  by  William 
and  from  the  artist — 

"Now,  now,  William,  easy;  take  your  time;  get  that  straight, 
now." 

"Oh,  ah,   I  have  it.     When  is  a  wolf  a  fox?" 
The  artist  reflects  deeply:  "I  give  it  up.     When  is  a  wolf  a 
fox,  Mr.  Bones?" 

"When  he  won't  be  trapped,"  responds  William. 
The  house  grins,  and  William  with  the  successful  joke- 
makers'  just  pride,  elucidates:  "I  was  suggesting  to  Fred  just 
now  that  a  wolf  might  be  trapped  and  Fred  said,  'You  can't  do 
it.  He  is  too  foxy,'  and  it  came  to  me  just  like  that."  Of  such 
trifles  are  laughter  and  diversion  in  camp  made. 

With  a  rainy  and  threatening  night  outside,  a  blazing  fire, 
and  two  card  games  within,  this  day  ends. 


'Earl" 


Saturday  the  third. 

A  fresh  snow  and  the  camp  astir  at  daybreak  in  expectation 
of  easy  tracking  at  their  elk  hunting.     Counter  and  Art  departed 


The  Content  of  Quiet  Days  91 


down  the  valley,  and  Jay  and  William  up  the  hill,  southeast 
and  north  of  camp  respectively. 

Both  parties  returned  in  mid-afternoon.  Counter  and  Arthur 
reported  having  trailed  a  pair  of  fine  bull  elks  for  an  hour.  As 
they  did  not  stop  to  feed,  and  were  gaining  all  the  time,  the 
chase  was  finally  abandoned,  it  being  useless  to  expect  to  catch 
up  with  them  before  nightfall.  Jay  and  William  struck  a  fresh 
track  and  got  within  sight  and  range,  but  the  bull  was  in  close 
timber  where  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  clear  sight.  He  started 
traveling  at  speed  through  the  timber,  and  of  course  could  not 
be  followed  with  the  hope  of  again  getting  in  range  after  having 
been  once  jumped. 

Fred  went  down  to  Grayling  with  a  pack  horse  in  the  after- 
noon, for  mail  and  supplies.  A  heavy,  wet  snow  fell  all  day. 
About  nine  in  the  evening  the  snow  cleared  and  a  struggling  moon 
showed.  With  cards,  cheerful  talk,  and  a  hope  of  fair  weather 
on  the  morrow  the  day  concludes. 


MAINLY  OF  ELK 


Sunday  the  fourths 

A  half  clear  dawn  with  the  hillsides  shrouded  in  heavy 
clouds,  four  inches  of  snow  on  the  level,  and  snow  again  at  half- 
past  eight. 

Jay  and  Bill,  Art  and  Earl  saddled  up.  The  first  two 
started  in  spite  of  heavy  snowfall.  Art  made  a  bluff  at  going 
but  concluded  that  the  fireside  was  a  very  good  place.  He 
stayed  there.  The  artist  didn't  even  make  a  bluff  at  going  out, 
but  set  up  a  canvas  and  got  busy  with  a  composition  of  the  valley 
and  Mount  Baldy  in  late  afternoon  light. 

Fred  arrived  from  Grayling  with  the  mail  and  Chicago 
newspapers,  the  latest  of  them  seven  days  old.  William  and 
Jay  came  back  shortly  before  noon,  after  an  eight-mile  ride, 
reporting  very  heavy  snow  and  high  wind  on  the  higher  levels 
where  they  had  been  hunting,  and  no  sign  of  recently  moving 
elk  except  one  track  crossed  on  the  way  home  about  three-quarters 
of  a  mile  back  from  camp  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge.  This  track  they 
said  was  comparatively  fresh,  and  was  that  of  a  young  bull  or  cow. 

After  dinner  the  snow  continued.  Art  and  Earl  decided 
they  would  go  out  for  a  while  and  take  up  the  fresh  track  of  the 
young  bull  mentioned  by  Jay  and  William.  About  four  o'clock 
they  returned,  carrying  the  liver  of  the  animal.  Art  had  had  his 
first  shot  at  an  elk.  It  proved  to  be  a  fine  piece  of  meat,  a  young 
spike  bull,  18  to  20  months  old,  with  his  spikes  which  were  about 
fourteen  inches  long  still  in  the  velvet,  which  condition  at  this 
time  of  year  it  seems  is  rare.  Earl  reported  that  they  had  fol- 
lowed him  only  about  a  mile  and  a  half  when  they  found  him 
leisurely  feeding  on  some  willows  at  the  edge  of  a  spruce  thicket, 
and  Art  had  brought  him  down  with  a  shoulder  shot  at  about 
eighty  yards,  a  second  shot  at  closer  range  breaking  the  spinal 
column  just  back  of  the  head.  A  royal  supper  and  a  congenial 
evening  followed. 

This  day  William  took  another  bath  on  a  rubber  sheet 
spread  on  the  cabin  floor  before  the  fireplace.  A  fire's  a  com- 
fortable thing  anyway,  with  seven  inches  of  snow  on  the  level 
outside  and  perhaps  more  to  come. 

Page  92 


Mainly  of  Elk  93 


Monday  the  fifths 

Snowing  at  daybreak,  a  bluff  at  clearing  up  shortly  before 
noon,  and  again  snowing  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  with  twelve  inches 
on  the  level  and  the  Camp  Tepee  bungalow  fringed  with  icicles 
from  eaves  to  the  ground,  some  over  six  feet  long,  is  the  weather 
record  for  this  day. 

The  hobbled  horses,  grazing  loose,  are  unable  to  rustle  suffi- 
cient feed  through  the  snow.  A  pronouncement  is  made  by  the 
colonel  of  the  camp  that  unless  the  storm  breaks  and  clears,  the 
camp  must  break,  and  move  on  the  morrow  to  lower  levels  where 
the  horses  can  get  feed. 

Jay  and  Counter  went  into  the  woods  to  dismember  and  bring 
in  the  meat  of  yesterday's  kill.  In  respect  of  elk  horns  Counter 
handed  out  a  rather  interesting  bit  of  information,  viz.  that  in  the 
second  year  the  young  bull  elk  gets  his  first  branches — the  brow 
spires,  and  thereafter  an  additional  spire  up  to  the  fourth  or  fifth 
year,  after  which  the  number  of  spires  may  vary;  it  having  come 
within  his  knowledge  that  a  six-year-old  bull  carried  only  five 
branches  and  cases  having  been  reported  to  him  of  older  bulls 
having  a  still  less  number  of  branches.  It  is  Counter's  opinion 
that  the  character  of  the  winter  may  have  effect  upon  the  number 
of  branches,  reasoning  by  analogy  from  the  case  of  domestic  cattle. 
Herefords  and  Durhams  for  instance,  according  to  him,  when 
corralled,  sheltered  and  full  fed  in  winter,  develop  small  horns,  but 
turned  loose  on  the  range  with  only  such  food  as  they  can  pick  up, 
develop  large  and  long  horns.  Counter  disputes  the  avowal  of 
Mr.  Roosevelt  that  the  prairie  antelope,  as  do  the  deer  kind 
generally,  sheds  its  horns,  inasmuch  as  he  has  never  seen  prairie 
antelope  with  new  horns  in  the  velvet,  or  bare  of  horns,  nor  has 
he  ever  seen  a  shed  antelope  horn. 

With  a  sketch  of  the  interior  of  the  camp  by  the  artist,  the 
mending  of  hobbles  and  pack  ropes  by  the  guides,  cards,  the 
savoring  of  elk  meat  for  dinner,  and  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  talk, 
this  day  within  doors  passes  swiftly  to  its  end,  with  snow  still 
falling. 


GOOD-BYE.  CAMP  TEPEE 


Tuesday  the  sixth. 

This  morning  there  came  a  temporary  cessation  of  the  snow, 
but  the  sky  is  heavily  overcast.  There  were  elk  meat  and  hot  corn 
cakes  for  breakfast. 

There  is  something  between  twenty  and  twenty-four  inches  of 
snow  on  the  level,  the  wind  from  the  west,  what  there  is  perceptible 
by  the  drift  of  clouds,  the  temperature  a  bit  below  freezing ;  and  it's 
a  question  of  getting  out  to-day,  and  saving  the  horses, or  remaining 
on  a  chance  of  a  break  and  clear,  and  starving  the  horses,  and 
risking  still  greater  difficulty  in  getting  out. 

The  pack  and  saddle  horses  got  no  feed  yesterday  and  there 
being  a  limited  supply  of  oats  in  camp,  the  horse  wranglers  are 
drawing  poker  hands  on  the  kitchen  table  to  see  which  saddle 
horses  get  the  last  feed  of  oats  before  starting.  The  starved  pack 
horses  were  given  the  hay  which  had  been  used  in  the  camp  beds. 

Oranges  are  handed  out  by  William,  who  advised  us  thusly: 
"Put  the  peel  in  your  pocket  to  chew  on  going  down."  A  little 
earlier  he  had  advised  the  artist,  busy  before  a  mirror,  that  it 
wasn't  an  absolute  necessity  for  him  to  shave,  he  might  be  a  bit 
more  comfortable  without,  since,  as  spoken  a  trifle  later  "This  is 
the  morning  we  make  the  dash  for  the  pole."  It  was  apparent  to 
all  that  William  was  most  reluctant  to  leave  camp  and  descend 
to  the  lower  levels.  It  meant  the  abandonment  of  a  two  or  three- 
day  trip  on  Old  Baldy  and  the  adjoining  ridges,  planned  by  himself 
and  Jay,  for  bighorn,  but  there  was  now  at  least  three  feet  of  snow  on 
Old  Baldy  and  no  grass  for  the  horses.  William  was  observed  to 
put  his  nightcap  in  his  pocket,  and  the  artist  likewise,  for,  as 
William  explained:  "It  will  be  a  mighty  comfortable  thing  to  tie 
around  your  ears  if  there's  any  wind  going  over  those  snow  slopes 
on  the  way  down. 

The  business  of  packing  and  saddling  succeeded.  The  tying 
of  a  pack,  it  is  almost  a  commonplace  to  observe,  is  an  art  by 
itself,  attained  in  its  perfection  only  after  numberless  trials,  and 
comprehending  within  its  purview  a  variety  of  knots,  hitches  and 
throws,  almost  as  many  in  number  as  those  a  seaman  is  supposed 
to  master.     The  points  aimed  for  by  the  packer,  as  gathered  by 

Page  94 


Good-Bye,  Camp  Tepee  ^ 


the  observing  scribe,  are  balanced  distribution  of  weight  upon  the 
animal's  back,  and  such  a  securing  of  the  pack  with  the  packline 
that  every  unexpected  stress  and  strain  caused  by  motion  upon  an 
uneven  and  steep  trail,  is  taken  up  in  every  direction,  each  part  of 
the  line  stressing  upon  every  other  part  in  such  a  way  as  to  keep  all 
taut.  As  a  minor  incident  of  the  entire  business  is  to  be  noted 
again,  William's  peculiarly  workmanlike  mode  of  forming  a  close, 
compact,  and  solid  bedding  roll,  enclosing  rifles  and  other  such 
impedimenta  awkward  to  stow  of  themselves.  The  pack  bags, 
oblong  floored,  high  sided  canvas  bags  reinforced  at  the  corners 
and  lips  with  leather,  with  projecting  iron  rings  for  the  passage  of 
the  packline,  and  holding  provisions,  kitchen  utensils,  and  like 
small  items,  are  to  be  noted  as  a  necessary  part  of  pack-traveling 
equipment. 

A  hasty  lunch,  the  final  securing  of  provisions  left  behind  from 
roof  rafters,  beyond  the  reach  of  small  wild  animals  that  might 
gain  entry,  and  the  dousing  of  the  fire,  and  the  march  commenced. 
Crossing  the  creek,  the  artist  waved  a  farewell  to  Mount  Baldy, 
brilliantly  white  in  the  sun  against  drifting  clouds,  and  fell  there- 
after to  observing  the  flashing  hues  of  refracted  light  from  melted 
snowdrops  on  the  hindquarters  of  the  pack  horse  immediately 
before  him.  Through  the  snow  the  pack  animals  plunged  and 
tango  stepped,  following  the  colonel  of  the  camp  and  Jay,  breaking 
trail.  The  snow  slopes,  blinding  in  sunny  brilliance,  showed  in 
sharp  cut  shadow  the  plodding  forms  of  the  pack  train.  Heavily 
snow-weighted  fir  trees  beside  the  trail  bent  over  into  fantastic 
suggestions  of  white  hooded,  mysterious  figures.  Sometimes  a 
quaint  grotesque,  causing  an  inward  smile  was  encountered. 
Advancing  to  a  rise,  William  turned  in  his  saddle  and  waved  a 
hand  to  the  artist  to  make  sure  of  his  seeing  a  noble  group  of  firs, 
sculpturesquely  draped  in  alban  purity,  that  dominated  the 
eminence.  Jay  was  observed  to  check  his  horse  and  look  down 
upon  his  right.  The  artist  did  so  likewise  on  reaching  the  same 
point,  and  for  some  further  distance  meditated  upon  the  curious 
recognitory  thrill  that  comes  to  one  identifying  for  the  first  time 
the  trail  of  the  bull  elk  in  the  snow.  Presently,  in  the  woods,  up 
and  down  the  slopes,  occasional  small  avalanches  of  powdered 
snow  descended  from  branches  overhead,  barely  poised,  needing 
but  the  passage  of  a  pack  horse  to  disturb  them.     One  noted  again 


96  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


the  white  silence  of  the  forested,  heights.  It  was  not  threatening, 
not  fearful;  rather  it  conveyed  a  sense  of  utter  impassivity,  the 
self -con  tainedness  of  the  wilds. 

None  of  the  great  upland  plateaus  nor  notable  descents  of 
the  trip  in  were  encountered  and  the  artist  quickly  recognized 
that  the  party  was  going  out  by  a  new  trail,  and  presently  began 
to  pick  up  a  succession  of  blazes  on  the  tree  trunks;  and  to  enter- 
tain himself  by  the  endeavor  to  pick  the  trail  as  far  ahead  as 
possible  by  blazes  alone.  Though  it  is  to  be  noted  with  em- 
phasis, that  picking  up  blazes,  comfortably  saddled  on  the  back 
of  a  smart  and  quiet  Indian  pony  treading  with  assurance  in 
the  trail  made  by  a  preceding  train  is  a  vastly  different  business 
from  that  of  identifying  blazes  on  a  trail  traveled  de  novo.  Elk 
tracks  were  frequent,  crossing  the  trail  repeatedly.  Weazel  and 
marten  trails  also  were  noted,  twisting  and  winding  on  them- 
selves in  characteristic  fashion. 

Two  hours  out  from  Camp  Tepee,  a  party  of  three  was  en- 
countered, equipped  for  elk  hunting,  but  really  on  the  more 
serious  business  of  searching  for  the  father  of  the  man  encoun- 
tered fishing  above  the  Madison  river  camp  some  days  pre- 
viously, who  had  gone  after  elk,  and  had  been  lost  since  Sunday. 
As  detailed  by  William  later  in  the  evening,  though  better  things 
were  strenuously  hoped  for,  the  chances  were,  that  overcome 
by  terror  of  being  lost,  the  unfortunate  had  lost  his  head,  and, 
instead  of  building  a  fire,  and  waiting  to  be  found,  had,  with 
the  deadly  fear  that  sometimes  overmasters  those  lost  in  the 
woods,  kept  on  traveling,  searching  for  shelter,  and  by  that 
rendering  much  more  difficult  the  task  of  those  searching 
for  him. 

Some  hour  and  a  half  before  sunset,  debouching  upon  the 
easier  slopes,  the  windings  of  the  north  fork  of  the  Madison 
were  recognized  amid  the  snow-covered  plain.  The  surrounding 
hills,  Twotop  notably,  and  later.  Coffin  Mountain,  had  been 
hailed  sometime  previously.  And  along  a  bit  of  road,  across 
a  rise;  and  with  some  skirmishing  by  Jay  and  Fred  to  round 
up  rebellious  pack  animals  at  a  fence  corner,  the  party  came 
to  the  Oliver  Johnson  ranch.  In  the  dooryard  was  an  elk  calf, 
curious,  standoffish  in  manner,  and  with  a  thick  pelt  that  spoke 
eloquently  of  the  youngster's  provision  for  the  winter. 


Good-Bye,  Camp  Tepee  97 


Received  by  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  handsome,  clear  skinned  woman, 
fair  haired,  of  height  and  presence,  and  a  genially  fine  manner, 
and  by  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Gladstone,  whose  Scheherazade- 
like head-dress  gave  a  piquantly  oriental  touch  to  her  own  Saxon 
good  looks,  the  party  settled  comfortably  down  for  the  evening 
by  a  box  stove,  between  two  windows,  one  commanding  the 
south  and  east,  the  other  the  west. 

A  winter  sunset  came,  flaming  in  orange  gold,  clear  gold 
and  green  gold  in  succession  beneath  the  overhead  gray,  rose- 
shot  clouds,  the  snow  sheeted  valley  and  low  hills  bounding  it 
lying  under  it  in  pale  violet,  the  mountains  closing  the  horizon 
in  deep  blue  violet,  with  still  deeper  bands  where  the  fir  forests 
crowned  the  near  foothills.  Just  beneath  the  windows,  a  bend 
of  the  nearby  creek,  spreading  broad  in  the  violet  snow,  flamed 
to  the  evening  sky  like  a  spread  jewel.  From  one  window  to  the 
other  the  artist  walked,  neglecting  his  supper,  his  fellows  at  the 
table  kindly  tolerant  of  his  little  peculiarity,  and  interested  in 
his  hurried  sketching. 

A  solidly  bound  quarto  Shakespeare,  in  good  workmanlike 
calf,  its  pages  thumbed,  lay  upon  a  table  and  amid  a  medley  of 
other  books  were  noted  a  well  bound  set  of  Dumas,  a  novel  or 
two  by  E.  P.  Roe,  a  sea  story  of  Clark  Russell's,  Scott's  St.  Ronan's 
Well,  Ebers'  Uarda,  and  some  odd  volumes  of  Stevenson  and 
Byron.  Best  sellers  were  not.  A  couple  of  fine  bearskins  on 
the  walls,  the  interspaces  occupied  by  plates  from  Life,  some 
calendar  pictures,  and  a  miscellany  of  valentines,  postcards, 
Christmas  cards,  and  photographs  in  groups  gave  evidence  of 
the  native  hunger  for  the  expression  of  beauty  in  some  form. 
To  this  a  gramophone  on  a  table  in  one  corner  whose  first  record 
roll,  picked  up  at  random,  was  titled  "Mayflower  Polka"  also 
testified,  together  with  geranium  slips  rooting  strongly  in  tomato 
cans  in  the  south  window. 

Presently  arrived  Mr.  Johnson,  a  bearded  fair  man  of  middle 
height,  compactly  built,  with  the  brow  and  eyes  of  a  student 
and  poet,  coupled  with  the  reserved  resource  of  the  plainsman. 
His  local  soubriquet,  "Snowshoe"  Johnson,  is  derived  from 
his  having  been  the  champion  ski-runner  and  snowshoe  walker 
of  the  district  for  successive  winters. 

Some  mail  arrived  from  the  Grayling  postoflice  a  mile  west. 


98  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


And  with  thankful  weariness  the  travelers  went  to  bed,  on  real 
mattresses,  and  between  sheets,  William  choosing  the  artist  for 
a  bunk-mate,  on  the  ground  of  his  being  a  quiet  sleeper. 


THREE  QUIET  DAYS 


Wednesday  the  seventh. 

At  breakfast  this  morning  the  artist  commented  to  Mr. 
Johnson  on  the  excellence  of  the  Shakespeare  he  had  handled  the 
evening  before,  and  found  he  had  touched  a  match  to  a  mine. 
Comment,  quotation  and  counter  quotation,  appreciation  of 
characters,  and  anecdotes  of  great  players  were  exchanged  from 
the  ends  of  the  table,  with  a  reciprocal  pleasure  and  something 
to  the  tolerant  amusement  of  those  who  listened  to  the  Shake- 
speare fans'  diversion. 

On  this  bleak  hillside  lives  this  man,  face  to  face  each  day 
with  the  stern  necessity  of  merely  living,  on  ground  so  high  that 
little  save  prairie  hay  may  be  raised  during  a  growing  season 
a  little  over  eight  weeks 
long;  hardened  with  toil  and 
exposure  to  weather  whose 
grim  bitterness  in  winter 
can  be  but  faintly  imagined 
by  the  city  dweller  in  a 
heated  flat ;  remote  from  any 
town — his  nearest  railway 
point  thirteen  miles  away — 
and  a  train  there  during 
seven  months  of  the  year 
only;  his  neighbors,  a  mile 
on  either  side,  too  engrossed, 
as  himself,  with  the  daily 
work  of  living  to  have  time 
or  inclination  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  a  kindred  taste. 
In  this  mental  and  physical 
isolation,  amid  the  hardships 
and  unending  daily  toil  of 
the  pioneer  ranchman,  he 
has  found  opportunity  to  make  himself  a  scholar  of  the  great 
dramatist,    whose    direct   and   familiar   acquaintance   with   and 


"Snowshoe"  Johnson 


Page  99 


100  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


appreciation  of  his   finenesses   might   shame  many  a   professor 
of  literature. 

Fred,  detailed  by  the  colonel,  was  away  early  into  the 
hills  through  which  we  came  yesterday,  to  aid  in  the  search 
for  the  missing  man.  Jay  and  William  followed,  intent  on 
both  man  and  elk  hunting,  as  also  Art  and  Counter  still 
later. 

This  was  a  gloriously  clear  day,  warm  at  mid-day,  the  hill- 
side clay  under  the  sun  and  melting  snow,  which  at  this  lower 
level  was  not  more  than  three  inches  deep,  developing  a  quality 
of  slip  and  slide  of  the  nth  degree  of  lubricity.  Though  he  would 
rather  have  been  without  doors  the  artist  bound  himself  to  his 
conceived  duty,  that  of  record  of  the  sunset  splendor,  quietly 
glowing  in  gold  over  a  violet  snow  plain,  observed  the  evening 
before. 

The  evening  of  this  day  was  no  less  splendid,  and  the  play 
of  rose  light  on  the  shoulders  and  bosses  of  the  hills  to  the  south- 
east, their  hollows  toned  with  pure  cobalt,  under  a  goldenly 
green  sky,  on  whose  lower  border  piled  low,  rose-glowing  cumulus 
clouds,  beneath  long  streamers  of  violet-gray  cirrus,  was  unspeak- 
ably beautiful,  viewed  from  the  hillside  above  the  house.  The 
band  of  distant  firs  next  succeeding  the  hills  toward  the  fore- 
ground, showed  in  the  evening  light  a  deep  greenish  blue.  Next 
them  lay  a  broad  strip  of  sage,  luminously  green  gray,  almost 
as  the  sky,  but  of  a  deeper  tone.  Then  came  a  broad  band  of 
willow  bush  marking  the  course  of  the  hidden  stream,  deep  red 
violet,  with  a  hint  of  orange  here  and  there.  Immediately  be- 
low lay  a  patch  of  snow-covered  prairie,  pale  orange  gold  in  the 
last  sun,  with  the  long-lying  shadows  of  a  near  haystack  clear 
violet  upon  it,  changing  as  the  sun  left  it  to  pale  blue  violet, 
as  the  rose  light  mentioned  came  upon  the  hills  far  beyond.  In 
the  extreme  east,  lay  a  low,  long  bank  of  cumulus  clouds  in  rose 
and  violet,  and  in  the  west,  floating  bars  of  brilliant  gold  in  a 
green-gold  sky  above  the  violet  blue  bulk  of  the  mountains  made 
one  to  feel  the  futility  of  words. 

A  boulder  upon  the  hillside,  its  sides  embroidered  with  the 
lichen  that  had  wrought  its  slow  patterning  a  thousand  centuries 
before  man  ever  set  foot  in  this  valley — in  looking  upon  it,  its 
sides  riven  with  the  slow  process  of  summer  heat,  fall  rain  and 


Three  Quiet  Days  101 


winter  frost  through  a  lapse  of  time  that  baffled  one's  attempt 
to  grasp:  what  was  it  but  a  document  of  the  very  beginning  of 
things,  that  made  man's  pride  in  his  history-recorded  antiquities 
a  fooHsh  and  a  childish  thing. 

Just  after  sundown  a  blue  heron  settled  in  the  creek  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  house  door.  Through  field  glasses  he  was 
observed  to  lay  his  head  sideways  to  the  water,  well  below  his 
shoulders.  After  half  a  minute  he  struck,  sideways,  his  head 
traveling  to  the  water  on  a  slight  incline,  almost  horizontally. 
Four  times  he  was  observed  to  strike,  and  not  once  with  a  direct 
up  and  down  blow,  always  sideways,  from  an  almost  horizontal 
position  of  the  head  just  above  the  water. 

At  sundown  Art  and  Counter  returned  reporting  no  luck. 
Shortly  after  came  William  and  Jay.  William  had  had  the 
felicity  to  observe  a  band  of  cow  elks  and  calves,  clear  against 
the  sky  upon  a  high  ridge,  for  some  minutes ;  a  pretty  sight,  and 
one  that  stirred  his  innate  love  of  animals  to  the  utmost.  They 
had  found  any  number  of  bull  tracks,  but,  desirous  of  obtaining 
an  extra  large  head,  had  chosen  only  the  very  largest,  and  had 
made  a  long  and  difficult  trail,  confident  of  obtaining  the  boss 
elk  head  of  the  range.  Suddenly  to  their  disgust  the  trail  went 
clear  between  a  couple  of  young  firs,  barely  three  feet  apart, 
and  their  barks  were  unscratched.  No  animal  with  a  spread 
of  horns  worth  bothering  about  was  going  through  that  gap, 
for  all  the  size  of  his  feet.  So  there  the  chase  was  aban- 
doned. 

After  dark  arrived  Fred,  from  a  long  day's  search  for  the 
missing  man.  Fred  had  found  his  trail,  some  thirty-six  hours 
old — as  nearly  as  could  be  judged,  this  side  of  Tepee.  He  had 
lain  down,  and  had  his  gun  with  him,  for  the  print  of  it  was  ob- 
served in  the  snow  where  he  had  rested.  He  was  chewing  to- 
bacco— had  built  no  fire,  which  argued  he  had  no  matches,  and 
was  taking  short  steps,  which  indicated  exhaustion.  The  ap- 
proach of  darkness  put  an  end  to  the  search  to  be  taken  up 
again  on  the  morrow. 

Newspapers  and  mail  were  brought  in  from  Grayling  post- 
office  by  Mr.  Johnson — the  newest  Chicago  paper  a  week  old — 
and  from  Salt  Lake  City  three  days  old.  Everybody  went  to 
bed  early,  with  the  weather  clouding  up  outside. 


102  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


Thursday  the  eighth. 

Fred  was  away  early  into  the  hills  to  the  north  to  again  take 
up  the  search  for  the  missing  man.  William  and  Jay  followed 
him  shortly,  still  intent  on  elk. 

During  the  forenoon,  the  carcass  of  a  large  cow  elk  was 
brought  in  by  "Snowshoe,"  and  butchered  for  the  winter 
meat  supply.  It  appears  that  the  salting  and  drying  of  elk 
meat  for  this  purpose  is  a  regular  practice  of  many  ranchers  in 
this  part  of  the  country. 

There  was  a  semi-clear  sky  at  sundown,  with  a  lovely  pile 
of  cumulus  clouds  on  the  southern  horizon,  and  a  great  deal  of 
snow  gone  from  the  warmth  of  mid-day,  a  prospect  of  cloud  and 
perhaps  snow  on  the  morrow. 

Some  hours  after  supper  William  and  Jay  came  in,  having 
ridden  and  trailed  about  thirty  miles  in  the  day,  on  a  tremen- 
dous track,  which  darkness  compelled  them  to  abandon  within 
a  mile  of  our  Tepee  camp,  as  the  animal  was  traveling,  not 
stopping  to  feed.  Any  number  of  minor  chances  presented 
themselves,  but  as  William  expressed  it:  "I  don't  want  to  kill 
another  bull,  merely  for  the  sake  of  killing  him:  but  only  if  he  has 
a  bigger  head  than  the  one  I  have."  Fred  met  them  at  the  cabin 
just  as  they  left,  with  no  news  of  the  missing  man,  and  proposing 
to  stay  there  all  night. 

This  evening  the  gathering  at  the  Johnson  ranch  received  a 
notable  addition  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Franklin  Frohman, 
of  Dillon,  Montana,  specifically,  and  of  the  West  in  general  since 
1864,  in  which  year  he  crossed  the  plains  in  an  emigrant  train  of 
sixty-six  wagons.  A  man  of  height,  weight  and  presence ;  with  a 
faintly  grizzling  brown  beard  and  mustache,  a  heavy  shock  of 
still  black  hair  gives  the  lie  to  his  confessed  sixty-seven  years. 
"Ben"  as  by  now  he  is  familiarly  called  by  all  the  party,  is  a  living 
witness  to  the  health  and  youth  conserving  power  of  an  active 
life  without-doors  in  the  West.  An  Indian  fighter  of  repute, 
claiming  thirty-seven  scalps,  and  hoping  to  get  a  few  more  before 
he  quits,  his  point  of  view  toward  the  primitive  people  of  the  plains 
is  essentially  that  of  a  man  personally  witness  to  acts  of  cold- 
blooded treachery  and  cruelty  on  their  part  to  those  who  had  bene- 
fitted them,  and  who  has  himself  been  compelled  to  defense  against 
attack  unprovoked.     To  such  a  man  the  larger  ethical  aspects  of 


Three  Quiet  Days 


103 


the  case,  the  probability  that  the  Indian,  offended  by  one  white 
man,  childUke,  thereafter  conceives  all  whites  his  natural  enemy, 
and  his  quite  human  resentment  of  the  usurpation  of  his  hunting 
grounds  by  a  strange  people,  do  not  exist.  By  his  own  account, 
scout  and  fighter  in  several  Indian  wars,  witness  of  every  refine- 
ment of  aboriginal  cruelty, 
Mr.  Frohman  was  emphatic 
in  confirmation  of  the  old 
aphorism  of  the  plains,  that 
"the  only  good  Injun  is  a 
dead  one,"  and  to  him  the 
slaughter  of  an  Indian  was  of 
less  consequence  than  the  kill- 
ing of  a  partridge.  Passing 
over  the  stated  inference, 
drawn  from  his  own  remarks, 
that  the  Indian  was  not  to 
be  considered  a  human  being 
at  all,  Mr.  Frohman  frankly 
could  not  account  for  the 
fact  that  the  Canadian  Gov- 
ernment had  had  no  such 
trouble  with  its  Indians  as 
had  the  United  States,  and 
that  the  history  of  settlement 
in  the  Canadian  west  showed 
no  such  record  of  massacres 

and  uprisings  as  did  the  western  states.  To  the  statement  that 
entire  communities  in  Canada  were  of  Indian  nationality,  farming, 
operating  factories,  electing  town  officers  and  voting  at  parlia- 
mentary elections,  taking  the  responsibility  of  citizenship  as  fully 
as  their  white  neighbors,  he  responded:  "There  must  have  been 
some  white  blood  in  them." 

Mr.  Frohman,  with  a  companion,  a  dentist  with  a  taste  for 
hunting,  had  just  come  down  from  the  hills  with  his  winter  supply 
of  elk  meat,  the  hindquarters  of  one  carcass  in  which  weighed  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and  the  forequarters  thickly  lined  with 
the  whitest  and  purest  fat,  hard  and  firm.  "Just  over  the  first 
joint  above  the  knee,  and  three  inches  forward,  and  you'll  get 
8 


''Ben'' 


f04  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


the  heart  of  an  elk  every  time"  was  his  statement  of  the  aiming 
point  for  the  elk  hunter.  He  was  proud  to  say  that  hunter 
though  he  was,  he  had  never  killed  merely  for  the  sports*  sake. 
He  had  never  wasted  a  pound  of  meat — fish,  flesh,  or  fowl. 

"Why,  one  time  I  killed  as  many  as  sixteen  elk  in  one  day  up 
in  the  hills  here;  but  I  used  every  one  of  them.  I  sold  four  hundred 
and  eighty  dollars  worth  that  season  at  from  seventeen  to  twenty- 
five  cents  a  pound,  and  the  rest  I  shipped  to  friends  in  want  of  meat. 

"No,  you  can't  tell  anything  about  an  elk's  age  from  the 
spikes  on  his  horns  after  the  fourth  or  fifth  year.  I've  known  an 
elk  in  captivity  over  twenty-five  years  that  had  not  more  than  six 
spikes  on  his  horns. 

"Prairie  antelope?  I've  seen  as  many  as  from  fifteen  hundred 
to  two  thousand  in  a  bunch,  but  I  doubt  now  if  you  would  see  more 
than  five  in  a  bunch.  They  are  getting  scarce.  Yes,  some  of  them 
may  have  been  killed  wastefully,  but  I  reckon  the  settlement  of  the 
country  drove  them  up  into  the  hills,  and  as  the  antelope  is  a 
prairie  animal,  in  the  deep  snow  of  the  timber,  they  can't  get  food 
freely,  and  of  course  a  great  many  must  have  been  starved  out. 
They  shed  the  outer  covering  of  the  horns,  but  the  bony  core  is 
permanent." 

Handing  out  a  couple  of  small  soft-nosed  shells,  he  com- 
mented: "Thirty-five — thirty-five.  The  old  large  caliber  rifles 
are  mostly  on  the  scrapheap.  I  shot  that  cow  to-day  withthissmall 
gun.  The  bullet  where  it  entered  made  a  hole  you  couldn't  see, 
but  it  struck  a  bone,  and  mushroomed,  and  where  it  came  out  you 
could  put  your  three  fingers  in.  She  didn't  go  further  than  from 
here  to  the  door  before  she  laid  down.  And  now  they  tell  me 
there's  a  twenty-two  that  shoots  a  mile.  Good  at  a  thousand 
yards,  they  say.  I  hear  a  lot  of  sportsmen  talking  about  these  long 
range  high  power  rifles.  But  back  here  in  Idaho,  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years,  I've  seen  more  deer  killed  at  a  hundred  yards 
and  under  than  over — three  times  as  many  more.  My  own  gun 
is  safe  up  to  four  hundred  yards — I'm  certain  of  it  up  to  that  range. 
And  I  don't  ever  have  occasion  to  use  it  that  far.  That  cow  I 
killed  to-day  was  got  at  thirty-five  paces.  I  counted  'em  when  I 
went  over — just  a  hundred  and  five  feet  I  made  it,  or  a  little  under. 
No,  you  don't  usually  get  a  sight  in  timber  much  over  a  hundred 
yards,  though  you  may  of  course  get  a  long  shot  at  one  clear  on 


Three  Quiet  Days  105 


the  sky  line,  on  a  hill  or  something  like  that,  but  that  don't  come 
often  enough  to  cut  any  ice." 


Friday  the  ninth. 

In  spite  of  light  snow  following  a  rose  and  gray  sunrise,  William 
and  Jay,  optimistic  and  persistent,  were  again  away  at  the  morn- 
ing's earliest  infancy,  still  intent  upon  the  big  head.  Art  and 
Counter  also.  Art  cheerfully  and  contagiously  hopeful,  shortly 
followed  them  on  the  same  quest. 

Shortly  before  sundown  the  quartette  returned,  with  a 
report  of  ' '  nothing  doing. ' '  Later  in  the  evening  William  expressed 
his  conviction,  contemplating  his  score  against  Arthur  in  their 
sempiternal  amusement,  that  the  chief  reason  for  his  being  unlucky 
in  the  hunt  for  the  big  head  lay  in  his  particularly  good  luck  at 
cards.  As  two  bodies  could  not  occupy  the  same  position  in  space 
at  one  time,  by  analogous  reasoning  it  clearly  followed  that  a  man 
could  not  expect  to  be  lucky  in  two  things  at  the  one  time.  A 
philosophic  piece  of  comfort. 

From  Peter  Kerzenmacher  at  Grayling  in  the  late  afternoon  it 
was  learned  that  the  missing  man  had  been  found  this  morning, 
living,  but  in  a  state  of  utter  exhaustion,  and  delirious,  something 
like  forty  miles  from  the  point  where  he  was  missed.  He  was 
being  cared  for  under  shelter,  and  would  be  brought  into  camp  at 
Grayling  to-morrow.* 

Mr.  Ben  Frohman  this  evening  made  some  comments  on 
gambling,  speaking  from  the  standpoint  of  one  who  had  run  a 
gambling  game  for  twenty-five  years. 

"  I  think  gambling  should  be  legalized  and  open.  If  it's  open, 
it's  got  to  be  on  the  square,  which  it  just  naturally  can't  be  behind 
closed  doors.  Now  they's  a  law  prohibiting  gambling  but  here 
they  let  these  horse  races,  poolrooms  and  bucket  shops  go  right 
along,  and  they're  worse,  for  on  a  horse  race  a  man  ain't  got  a 
chance  in  the  world  to  win — they's  so  many  ways  of  fixing  a  horse ; 
but  on  a  square  gambling  game  he  anyway  gets  an  even  break  for 
his  money.  Yes  sir,  1  reckon  1  would  rather  take  a  chance  on  a 
faro  game  or  a  dog  fight  than  on  a  horse  race.     If  I  ever  bet  on  a 

*It  was  later  learned  that  this  was  a  false  report.  Up  to  the  time  the  party  left  the  Johnson  ranch, 
no  trace  whatever  had  been  found  of  the  missing  man,  and  as  the  snow  was  deep  in  the  hills  and  more  coming, 
it  was  not  likely  that  any  trace  would  be  found,  if  at  all,  till  spring.  The  writer  is  informed  that  this  is  the 
third  inan  lost  in  three  successive  years  in  the  same  section,  which  fact  gives  a  strong  emphasis  to  the  caution 
given  him  by  William  in  an  earlier  chapter. 


106  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


horse  race,  it'll  be  on  my  own  horse,  and  he'll  run  for  blood.  No, 
I  don't  recognize  that  there's  any  moral  principle  at  all  involved  in  a 
gamble.  If  I've  got  a  hundred  dollars,  and  you've  got  a  hundred 
dollars,  and  I  like  to  put  my  hundred  against  yours  that  I  kin  play 
a  game  better'n  you  can,  I  reckon  that  ain't  any  one  else's  business 
but  ours.  Yes,  I  think  gambling  should  be  made  legal  for  anyone 
who  wants  to  buck  the  game  and  can  afford  it.  They's  a  lot  of  rich 
men  around  that  don't  know  anything  else  to  do  with  their  money, 
and  it  gets  a  lot  of  money  in  circulation  that  otherways  would  never 
move.  The  man  who  has  a  family  dependent  on  him  and  who 
can't  aflFord  to,  and  for  their  sakes  shouldn't  gamble,  should  be 
punished.  The  single  man  who  ain't  responsible  to  no  one  but 
himself,  he  should  be  permitted,  and  when  he's  broke,  let  him  go  to 
work  again. 

"  I  ain't  been  in  a  church  for  thirty  years,  and  then  I  was  pall 
bearer  at  the  funeral  of  a  friend  who  had  a  misunderstanding  with 
a  deputy  sheriff.  There  was  a  church  started  in  Dillon  long  before 
that,  and  the  hat  was  passed  for  contributions  for  the  building, 
and  they  came  to  me  and  the  other  game  keepers,  and  we  all  put 
up — and  we  wasn't  mean  about  it.  When  the  church  was  finished 
and  the  preacher  started  business — Methodist  it  was — my  wife 
wanted  to  go  one  night,  and  I  went  with  her.  And  there  was  a 
lot  of  the  other  men  that  with  me  had  put  up  for  it  in  there  too. 
And  the  preacher  preached  straight  at  us  as  gamblers  and  publicans, 
and  damned  us  so  far  into  hell  we  have  never  got  out  of  it,  and 
after  he'd  taken  our  money  too.  Now,  wasn't  that  enough  to 
make  any  man  quit?" 

"Look  here,  Ben"  the  artist  wanted  to  know;  "would  you 
consider  it  sportsmanlike  to  bet  on  a  sure  thing?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  its  being  sportsmanlike,"  responded  Ben; 
"but  I'd  reckon  it  darn  good  judgment." 

"But,  say,"  persisted  the  artist;  "would  you  reckon  that  a 
gamble?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  If  you're  betting  on  a  dead  sure  thing,  there  is  no  element  of 
chance  in  the  proposition;  and  when  you  don't  take  a  chance,  it 
isn't  a  gamble.  " 

"Oh,  yes  it  is,"  concluded  Ben.  "I  never  knew  a  thing  so 
sure  yet,  but  a  man  could  slip  up  on  it  some  way  or  other." 


Three  Quiet  Days  107 


A  little  later,  Mr.  Frohman  made  a  series  of  statements  that 
may  be  commended  to  the  serious  consideration  of  ambitious 
sports  who  may  entertain  any  idea  of  "breaking  the  bank"  in 
the  "square  gambling  game"  mentioned  earlier  by  the  same 
gentleman. 

"You  prided  yourself  on  running  a  straight  game?"  he  was 
asked. 

"No.  It  wasn't  a  straight  game,"  frankly  responded  Mr. 
Frohman.     "  It  couldn't  be." 

"Give  me  a  little  more  information,  Ben?"  requested  his 
interlocutor. 

"Well,  you  see,  if  you're  running  a  game — keeping  a  bank — 
you've  got  to  pay  rent,  and  porter  hire,  janitor  service,  pay  the 
case  keeper  and  the  lookout,  your  own  salary,  and  square  the  police, 
and  pay  interest  on  the  capital  invested.  And  if  you're  going  to 
pay  all  those  running  expenses,  outside  of  getting  anything  for 
yourself,  you've  got  to  have  a  percentage  in  favor  of  the  bank, 
and  a  good  big  one,  or  you  can't  stay  in  business.  That's  why  there 
ain't  no  such  thing  as  a  straight  game.  There  can't  be.  Gamb- 
ling's a  business,  and  the  man  keeping  the  bank  has  to  make  his 
profit  on  it  the  same  as  any  other  man  in  business,  and  that's  why 
there  can't  be  any  such  thing  as  a  straight  game." 

To-morrow,  the  tenth,  the  camp  moves  to  Yellowstone,  to 
await  the  good  pleasure  of  the  more  or  less  uncertain  train  expected 
to  leave  on  the  eleventh — at  eleven  in  the  morning,  or  six  in  the 
evening.  There  is  an  unconfirmed  rumor  that  it  has  been  known 
to  leave  at  eleven  a.  m.  but  nobody  seems  to  think  the  possibility 
of  its  leaving  at  all  enough  of  a  sporting  chance  to  make  a  bet  on. 


AN   INTERLUDE 


Saturday  the  tenth. 

This  day  the  party  came  into  Yellowstone  in  a  heavy  hail 
storm,  that  lasted  nearly  all  the  way  in.  William  and  Jay  departed 
first  under  a  half  clear  sky,  riding  south,  and  round  by  Horse  Butte 
on  the  chance  of  scaring  up  the  big  head.  The  storm  broke  after 
Art  and  the  artist,  under  convoy  of  Counter,  were  some  three 
miles  or  so  on  the  way.  The  forerunners  were  found  awaiting 
the  latter  three  at  the  Madison  Hotel  on  arrival  at  Yellow- 
stone, in  the  evening,  they  having  given  up  the  idea  of 
hunting  as  soon  as  the  storm  broke,  and  pushed  full  speed 
for  Yellowstone.  Fred  drove  in  the  wagon  with  the  heavy 
trunks  and  camp  impedimenta. 

At  the  Madison  was  a  company  of  hunters,  fishers,  ranchmen 
and  packers,  about  a  dozen  in  number  including  our  own  party. 
A  comfortable  log  building,  with  access  to  the  bedrooms  obtained 
from  a  gallery  running  round  three  sides  of  the  central  hall,  it 
was  a  most  acceptable  haven  for  the  evening,  aided  by  a  com- 
fortably warm  box  stove,  cards,  and  a  piano,  lightly  and  ten- 
tatively fingered  by  the  artist  in  various  fragments  of  church 
music,  chants,  and  a  reminiscence  of  classical  balladry.  A  gram- 
ophone on  the  center  table  was  tended  by  Miss  Stevens,  school 
teacher,  a  spectacled,  curly  haired  Montana  girl,  with  ambitions 
of  a  university  course  and  newspaper  work  subsequently;  coupled 
with  a  yearning  for  European  travel.  Under  her  ministration 
the  evening  was  enlivened  by  a  continual  succession  of  vocal 
solos,  arias,  and  duets  from  the  great  continental  operas.  Talk  of 
cattle,  hunting,  and  fishing,  mingled  with  some  typical  western 
stories  floated  about  meanwhile.  And  when  bedtime  came, 
William  and  the  artist  bunking  together:  "A-a-ah"  yawned  the 
artist,  recreant  to  all  the  traditions  of  the  Red  Gods,  as  he  com- 
fortably disposed  himself  for  repose  upon  a  spring  mattress  with 
a  crisp  pillow  beneath  his  head,  "This  is  comfort."  And  then 
came  the  kindly  sleep  that,  vide  the  immortal  Sancho,  "covers 
one  all  over  like  a  cloak." 

Page  108 


An  Interlude  109 


Sunday  the  eleventh. 

"Well,  William,"  yawned  the  artist  after  lying  awake  for  an 

hour,   "I   guess  we  might  as  well  get  up.     There  doesn't  seem 

anything  else  we  can  do."     Subsequently  retailing  this  to  Art 

at  breakfast  the  Rabelaisian  William  put  the  emphasis  on  the 

we. 

Venison  and  bear  steak  for  breakfast.  Venison  for  dinner 
the  evening  before  strengthened  the  artist's  conviction,  expressed 
to  Jay,  that  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  look  a  deer  in  the  face  for 
the  next  seventeen  years.  Then  followed  repacking  of  grips, 
changing  of  clothes,  and  various  light  employments  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  expected  train,  which  might  or  might  not  come  at 
eleven  or  two,  or  any  other  time  God  might  please  to  send  it. 

At  dinner  announcement  was  made  of  the  train's  arrival  at 
two  o'clock,  interpreted  by  the  wise  ones  as  meaning  somewhere 
about  six  if  it  didn't  break  down  on  the  way  across  the  divide. 
At  last  came  the  train,  at  half  past  three.  Then  followed  the 
business  of  personally  checking  baggage,  and  negotiations  for  a 
ticket  for  the  artist  to  Ogden,  the  other  two  men  going  on  to 
Seattle  via  Idaho  Falls  and  Spokane,  and  the  trio  got  aboard. 
And  while  the  two  older  travelers,  wise  in  past  experience,  peace- 
fully continued  the  game  that  goes  on  forever,  and  the  artist 
by  turns  roved  up  and  down  the  car  and  slept,  the  engine  played 
pussy-wants-a-corner  with  sundry  freight  cars  and  the  one  pas- 
senger and  baggage  car  around  the  freight  yard  for  the  next  two 
hours. 

The  peculiar  isolation  of  the  handful  of  dwellers  in  Yellow- 
stone, the  tourist  season  closed,  is  well  covered  by  the  statement 
that  after  to-day  there  are  only  two  trains  more,  on  the  1 8th  and 
25th  of  October,  on  which  last  date  the  station  agent  comes  out. 
After  that  there  is  no  railroad  communication  with  the  outer  world 
until  some  time  in  May,  when  the  snow  leaves  the  mountain 
passes  sufficiently  to  permit  traffic.  The  local  general  store 
carries  in  its  warehouse  a  six  or  seven  months*  stock  of  the  stand- 
ard necessities  and  sundries  of  the  district  for  the  winter. 

At  nearly  half  past  five  the  train  made  a  start  for  Ash  ton, 
some  sixty  miles  south,  over  the  continental  divide.  At  eight 
o'clock  this  evening  after  a  supper  of  canned  pork  and  beans, 
and  cheese  on  crackers,  washed  down  with  strong  liquors  and 


110  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Roddies 


water,  some  distance  south  of  Ray's  pass  (the  crest  of  the  divide), 
the  engineer  pushed  a  couple  of  flat  cars  off  the  track  on  a  side 
switch.  All  freight  and  passenger  business  was  promptly  aban- 
doned. The  train  crew  turned  itself  into  an  impromptu  wreck- 
ing crew.  For  the  next  hour  and  a  quarter,  while  passengers 
yawned  and  queried,  slept  or  talked,  or  played  cards,  as  did 
William  and  Art,  all  unmindful  of  mundane  exigencies  without 
the  warm,  comfortable  and  smoky  baggage  car,  the  train  crew 
worked  to  restore  the  errant  cars  to  their  straight  and  narrow 
way. 

Here's  a  helva  clamor  of  iron  upon  iron  as  this  is  written, 
made  by  the  chains,  bars,  slip-ups  and  other  wrecking  apparatus, 
being  again  loaded  into  the  baggage  car.  Train  hands  in  sleet 
dripping  waterproofs  and  hats  clamber  aboard,  a  welcome  promise 
of  being  again  upon  our  way.  They  slap  their  gloves,  they  gather 
about  the  stove,  they  stack  their  lanterns.  Some  one  laughs. 
Through  the  open  baggage  car  door,  over  my  left  shoulder  I  see  a 
lantern  swinging.  The  engine  hoots — far  off — for  it  is  a  long  freight 
train  with  the  baggage  and  passenger  coach  at  the  end.  We  start 
and  everybody  looks  pleased  and  speaks  cheerfully. 

Men  gather  at  the  baggage  car  door  and  vainly  peer  into 
the  pitchy  depths  of  a  sheer  walled  thousand  foot  cleft,  along 
whose  brink  the  train  runs  for  a  number  of  miles,  and  whose 
invisible  river  is  faintly  heard  from  the  void  above  the  rattle 
of  the  train,   recalling  Kipling's  Song  of  the  Banjo. 

"Through  the  gorge  that  gives  the  stars  at  noonday  clear; 
Up  the  pass  that  packs  the  scud  beneath  the  wheel. 
Round  the  bluff  that  sinks  her  thousand  fathom  sheer. 
Down  the  valley  with  the  guttering  brakes  a-squeal; 
Where  the  trestle  groans  and  quivers  in  the  snow, 
And  the  many  shedded  levels  loop  and  twine: 
So  I  lead  my  reckless  children  from  below 
To  sing  the  song  of  Roland  to  the  pine 

IVith  my  tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-link-a-tink-a-tink, 
Till  the  ax  has  cleared  the  mountain,  croup  and  crest; 
And  we  ride  the  iron  stallions  down  to  drink 
Through  the  canyons  to  the  waters  of  the  west. " 

It  is  ten-thirty-five.  The  train  is  fifteen  miles  from  Ash  ton. 
In  five  hours  it  has  come  forty-five  miles.  If  we  do  not  strike 
another    car    off    the    track    we    will    be    there    a    little    before 


An  Interlude  II f 


midnight.     The  train  from  Ashton  leaves  at  seven-fifteen  in  the 
morning.     We  meditate  on  the  prospects  of  supper  and  sleep. 

"Ashton."     Thus  the  brakeman. 

William  commands  the  situation;  "I  am  going  to  beat  it 
for  the  hotel.  I  know  where  it  is.  There's  a  crowd  on  the  train 
and  they'll  all  be  wanting  rooms.  You  and  Art  take  your  time 
and  bring  along  the  baggage.  I'll  have  the  room  for  you."  It 
was  so  done. 

The  baggage  was  deposited  at  the  hotel,  startlingly  bright 
with  light,  and  wide  awake  at  the  deserted  midnight  of  a  small 
mountain  town.  Then,  with  William  still  with  a  generals'  grasp 
upon  all  phases  of  the  situation,  we  walked  up  one  side  of  the 
main  street  and  down  the  other  in  confident  quest  of  supper. 
The  street  is  wide  and  muddy.  The  buildings  are  mostly  one 
story  frame  store  types.  There  is  the  inevitable  postcard-photo- 
graph foundry  and  a  shooting  gallery.  A  cloudy  sky  is  overhead, 
there  is  a  warm  air,  and  a  star  or  two  is  visible  under  the  far 
edge  of  the  clouds. 

At  a  half  lighted  window  we  stopped.  At  the  far  end  of  a 
lunch  counter,  in  a  greasily  smoky  atmosphere,  was  a  group  of 
fellow  travelers  in  impassioned  negotiation  with  a  sleepy  but 
polite  Jap  in  undershirt  and  trousers.  His  day  was  ended.  He 
was  politely  averse  to  reopening  for  business  at  dead  midnight. 
A  dozen  hungry  men  argued  and  displayed  money  in  vain. 
William  came  quietly  into  the  group  and  fixed  the  impassively 
polite  gentleman  of  the  orient  with  a  persuasive  eye.  He  pulled 
forward  Art  and  the  artist,  and  pointing  to  them  held  up  three 
fingers  and  comprehended  the  rest  of  the  famished  gathering 
within  a  sweep  of  his  hand  that  terminated  with  a  half  seen 
swift  gesture  that  made  one  search  memory  as  to  just  where 
had  that  been  seen  before.  What  freemasonry  lay  between 
them  is  unknown.  Whatever  understanding  passed,  it  was 
sufficient.  The  Jap's  face  lighted  with  a  recognitory  gleam. 
He  bowed:  "The  honorable  gentlemen  should  be  fed  without 
delay,  at  a  most  estimable  speed.  The  honorable  pot  should 
boil,  the  distinguished  T  Bone  should  fry.  In  half  the  honorable 
hour." 

"How  do  you  reckon  he  does  it,  Art?"  queried  the  artist^ 
in  the  interim  before  the  accomplishment  of  the  meal. 


/ 12  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


"Search  me,  but  people  do  do  things  for  Bill,  don't  they? 
I  reckon  he  must  own  that  Jap.  Anyhow,  lets  be  thankful 
we're  with  him." 

"He's  put  it  on  a  cold  plate"  commented  the  artist,  some- 
time later,  contemplating  a  T-bone  steak  set  before  him. 

"Don't  holler,"  sternly  rebuked  Bill  "You  ought  to  be 
blanked  thankful  you're  getting  anything  at  all  to  eat  any 
way  at  all,  after  the  whole  outfit's  gone  to  bed.  That  Jap  didn't 
want  to  feed  anybody.  Jim's  getting  fussy,  coming  out  from 
camp."  he  went  on,  addressing  Art:  "Up  at  the  hotel  just  now, 
when  we  took  our  bags  up  to  our  room,  he  went  sniffing  around 
with  his  nose  in  the  air,  and  put  up  a  roar  because  the  windows 
hadn't  been  opened  since  the  last  traveler  slept  there  day  before 
yesterday.  And  that  when  he  didn't  know  if  he  was  going  to 
sleep  at  all  to-night.  Camp  life  isn't  a  good  thing  for  Jimmy. 
It's  too  luxurious — makes  him  too  soft  to  buck  the  hardships  of 
the  return  to  civilization." 

We  ate.     We  slept. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 


Monday  the  twelfth. 

Probably  the  most  impressive  thing  the  early  morning 
stroller  may  see  from  Ash  ton  is  the  Fingers,  the  three  great  up- 
standing peaks  of  the  Teton  range,  that  before  breakfast,  in 
October  one  may  see  dark  against  the  sunrise.  They  rise  from 
the  plain  with  a  dominant  abruptness.  One  feels  their  height, 
and  by  the  darkness  of  the  soaring  points  above  the  snowfields 
of  the  lower  slopes,  the  sheer  precipitousness  of  their  sides.     The 


The  "Fingers"  from  Ashton 

highest  point,  presenting  on  one  side  a  dead  vertical  line,  and 
on  the  other  an  abrupt  descent,  dominates  its  fellows  and  the 
plain  about  with  a  stern  majesty  that  holds  long  in  memory. 

Waiting  for  the  train,  a  man  from  Pocatello  who  had  been 
observed  to  get  on  at  Yellowstone  with  a  creel,  apparently  weighty, 
mentioned  to  the  artist  having  taken  Loch  Leven  trout  of  four 
and  one-half  pounds,  and  rainbow  trout  of  six  pounds  on  the 
main  stream  of  the  Madison.  Then,  perceiving  the  artist's 
occupation,  came  the  inevitable  question.  Almost  invariably 
people  speaking  to  an  artist  during  the  first  few  minutes  after 
meeting  him  as  such,  ask  him  if  he  knows  such  and  such  another 
one,  probably  in  their  home  town,  very  celebrated  for  painting 
sheep,  flowers,  or  dead  poultry,  or  they  tell  him  of  a  maiden 
aunt  who  is  inexpressibly  clever  at  watercolor. 

From  Ashton  to  Pocatello  was  observed  a  pleasant  farming 
country,  lying  in  mountain-bounded,  level-floored  valleys.     For 

Page  113 


/  14  Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 

some  distance  before  reaching  Blackfoot,  Idaho,  the  train  ran 
through  the  reservation  of  the  Idaho  Blackfoot  Indians,  whose 
farm  lands  with  their  dwellings  showed  a  good  deal  of  care  and 
thrift. 

A  bunch  of  tribesmen  got  on  the  train  at  Blackfoot,  and 
promptly  congregated  by  themselves  at  the  forward  end  of  the 
car.  The  artist,  having  some  slight  acquaintance  with  the  Chi- 
nook dialect,  which  at  one  time  formed  a  universal  language 
over  the  northwest  quarter  of  the  continent,  went  forward,  and 
tried  to  open  communication.  With  Indian  taciturnity  they 
refused  response. 

"The  moments  fly 
And  the  hour  is  nigh 
When  thou  and  I  must  part. 
My  dear. 
When  thou  and  I  must  part." 

So  sang  the  artist. 

"I'm  sorry,"  remarked  Art  to  the  artist,  "my  right  side  is 
going  to  feel  pretty  darn  lonesome."  The  artist,  throughout  the 
expedition  had  at  meals  sat  at  Art's  right  hand. 

"Pocatello!" 

"Good-bye,  Jimmy.  Tell  'em  in  Chicago  we'll  be  home  on 
the  twenty-second.  You  change  at  Ogden,  and  pick  up  the  Los 
Angeles  limited  for  home  if  you  can." 

And  hence,  William  and  Arthur  going  on  to  Spokane  and 
Seattle,  the  artist  journeyed  alone  through  the  Idaho  valleys.  Be- 
low Pocatello  came  a  splendid  succession  of  mountain  ranges,  float- 
ing blue  in  the  Indian  summer  air,  across  distant  benches  of  hay 
land  and  sage.  Asters  were  still  in  bloom,  and  willows  and  cotton- 
woods  in  full  leaf  below  Pocatello.  At  Cache  Creek,  4,425  feet 
above  sea  level,  and  forty-nine  miles  from  Ogden,  stray  butterflies 
were  still  on  the  wing. 

A  young  Kentuckian,  from  Cumberland  Gap,  dropping  into 
the  artist's  seat,  entertained  him  for  a  few  miles  with  a  tale  of  his 
courtship  of  a  belle  of  the  district,  known  locally  as  the  Queen  of 
the  Cumberland  Mountains.  With  circumstantiality  of  detail 
it  was  set  forth  how  other  suitors  had  tried  to  run  him  out  of  the 
country,  with  various  pot  shots  from  behind  fences  and  rocks. 
And  further,  how  one  evening  he  had  gone  calling  upon  the  queen 


Farewell  to  the  Mountains  115 


of  his  affections  with  a  Colt  seven  shot  automatic  pistol  under  his 
arm,  and  a  Winchester  sixteen  shot  rifle  as  a  staff.  He  was  bom- 
barded from  the  darkness  as  he  left  the  girl's  front  gate,  dropped 
behind  a  provident  rock  and  answered  in  the  general  direction  of 
the  fusillade.  The  engagement  lasted  for  twenty  matter-of-fact 
minutes.  He  failed  to  specify  casualties,  if  any,  or  if  he  eventually 
married  the  lady.  His  main  convictions  were  that  it  was  a  manly 
thing  to  carry  arms,  and  that  everybody  who  held  a  job  better 
than  his  own  in  the  railroad  service  (he  was  a  freight  clerk  when  he 
was  working)  did  so  by  power  of  pull  and  favoritism,  the  actual 
work  of  the  position  being  done  by  the  men  below.  He  gave  this 
astonishing  parting  dictum  to  the  artist:  "If  you  ever  go  to 
Kentucky,  you  want  to  go  armed.  A  man  feels  quite  good  with  a 
pistol  on  his  hip  or  under  his  arm." 

The  orchards  of  Salt  Lake  valley  show  apples  hanging  like 
jewels  among  the  foliage.  The  traveler  is  impressed  with  the 
orderly,  gardened,  and  kept  appearance  of  it  all.  It  is  a  thrifty 
smiling  land,  eloquent  of  industry  and  prosperity.  Everywhere  is 
the  Lombardy  poplar,  in  rows  and  groups.  Every  dwelling  and 
dooryard  is  sentineled  by  them,  and  with  them  are  most  noble 
groves  of  cottonwoods,  yet  in  the  green  of  summer.  The  Colorado 
magpie  is  frequently  seen,  and  flocks  of  other  wild  birds  rise 
continually  to  the  train's  passing.  The  gray  hillsides,  hazy  in 
Indian  summer,  show  the  aspen  and  willow  groves  in  bright  gold 
and  orange. 

At  Baker's  were  great  flats  covered  with  water.  The  moun- 
tains distant  in  the  west  sweep  to  their  heights  above  the  flats  in  a 
blue  and  still  splendor. 

At  Brigham,  4,310  feet,  twenty-one  miles  from  Ogden,  the 
orchards  are  heavily  loaded  with  red  apples.  The  peaks  of  the 
Wasatch  range  here  rise  sheerly  from  the  fruitful  plain  to  snow 
capped  summits.  Their  sides  show  a  pale  coppery  red,  with  the  hol- 
lows in  a  luminous  blue  shadow.  There  is  no  vegetation  upon 
them,  save  aspen  and  cottonwood,  but  they  are  beautiful  in  their 
bareness.  In  the  south,  the  sun  being  in  the  west,  the  mountains 
show  the  same  copper  red,  but  seen  through  a  blue  haze  of 
atmosphere. 

Winter  has  been  left  behind  at  Yellowstone,  and  one  has  come 
down  into  summer  in  the  Salt  Lake  plain.     The  grass  is  goldenly 


116 


Rod,  Gun,  and  Palette  in  the  High  Rockies 


withered,  the  sunflowers  and  cat  tails  have  seeded,  the  crops  have 
been  carried,  the  fruit,  red-ripe,  hangs  heavy  on  the  trees,  but 
summer  still  lingers. 

At  Ogden,   the  Los  Angeles  limited,  bound  east,  was  picked 

up  on  time,  the 
traveler  merely  walk- 
ing across  a  track 
from  one  train  to  the 
other. 

After  leaving 
Ogden  came  a  suc- 
cession of  fresh  splen- 
dors. Vista  on  vista 
of  ranges  behind 
ranges,  the  eastern 
faces  of  the  moun- 
tains above  the  val- 
ley blazing  with  the 
reddening  evening 
light,  the  near  fore- 
ground bluely  lumi- 
nous in  shadow,  the 
western  shoulders 
and  crags,  crowning 
in  some  heaven- 
piercing  point,  in 
violet  silhouette 
against  the  light- 
flooded  western 
heaven,  and  the  far 
off  distance  at  the 
end  of  the  pass  float- 
ing in  a  golden  haze.  On  the  observation  platform  the  departing 
sojourner  sat,  and  looked  upon  the  parting  splendor,  and  made 
farewell  to  the  mountains,  with  a  fresh  and  growing  thankful- 
ness for  the  kindly  fellowship,  the  appreciative  care  and  sympa- 
thetic friendliness  of  "Art"  and  of  "Bill,"  whose  guest  the  artist 
was,  whose  debtor  he  is. 


The  last  glimpse 


RETURN  TO  nil^^"^  USE 

™N  TOMSK  PROM  WHICH  B0RR0^,0 

lOAN  DEPT 


^B>lU;!roV& 


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